PS 
3503 

B79w 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Wappin'  Wharf 


Wappin'  Wharf 

A  Frightful  Comedy  of  Pirates 


By 
CHARLES  S.  BROOKS 

with  pictures  by 
JULIA  McCUNE  FLORY 

music  by 
GORDON  HATFIELD 


COPYRIGHT,  1922 
By  HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


Special  Edition 
Imprinted  for 

WALTER  H.  BAKER  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  —  BOSTON 


WAPPIN'  WHARF 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession  of  this  book  without  a 
valid  contract  for  production  first  having  been  obtained  from  the  publisher, 
confers  no  right  or  license  to  professionals  or  amateurs  to  produce  the  play 
publicly  or  in  private  for  gain  or  charity. 

In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading  public  only,  and  no 
performance,  representation,  production,  recitation,  or  public  reading,  or  radio 
broadcasting  may  be  given  except  by  special  arrangement  with  Walter  H.  Baker 
Company,  41  Winter  Street,  Boston,  Mass.,  or  Playhouse  Plays,  14  East  38th 
Street,  New  York  City. 

This  play  may  be  presented  by  amateurs  upon  payment  of  a  royalty  of 
Twenty-five  Dollars  for  each  performance,  payable  to  Walter  H.  Baker  Com 
pany,  41  Winter  Street,  Boston,  Mass.,  or  Playhouse  Plays,  14  East  38th  Street, 
New  York  City,  one  week  before  the  date  when  the  play  is  given. 

Whenever  the  play  is  produced  the  following  notice  must  appear  on  all 
programs,  printing  and  advertising  for  the  play:  "Produced  by  special  arrange 
ment  with  Walter  H.  Baker  Company." 

Attention  is  called  to  the  penalty  provided  by  law  for  any  infringement  of 
the  author's  rights  as  follows: 

"Section  4966:  Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing  any  dramatic 
or  musical  composition  for  which  copyright  has  been  obtained,  without  the 
consent  of  the  proprietor  of  said  dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his  heirs 
and  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  thereof,  such  damages,  in  all  cases  to 
be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty 
dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to  the  court  shall  appear  to  be 
just.  If  the  unlawful  performance  and  representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit, 
such  person  or  persons  shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor  and  upon  conviction 
shall  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year."  —  U.  S.  Revised 
Statutes:  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


PS 

3503 


Wappin'  Wharf 


CHARACTERS 

THE  DUKE 
PATCH-EYE 
THE  CAPTAIN 
RED  JOE 
DARLIN' 
BETSY 
OLD  MEG 
SAILOR  CAPTAIN 
THREE  SAILORS 

SETTING:  For  details  of  Stage  Set  turn  to  pages  35-6-7. 


A  PROLOGUE  TO  BE  SPOKEN  BY  BETSY 

Our  scene  is  the  wind-swept  coast  of  Devon.  By  day  there  is 
a  wide  stretch  of  ocean  far  below,  and  the  abutments  of  our  stage 
arise  from  a  dizzy  cliff. 

The  time  is  remote,  and  ships  of  forgotten  build  stand  out  from 
Bristol  in  full  sail  for  the  mines  of  India.  But  we  must  be  loose 
and  free  of  precise  date  lest  our  plot  be  shamed  by  broken  fact. 
A  thousand  years  are  but  as  yesterday.  We  make  but  a  general 
gesture  to  the  dim  spaces  of  the  past. 

The  village  of  Clovelly  climbs  in  a  single  street  —  a  staircase, 
really  —  and  it  is  fagged  and  out  of  breath  half  way.  But  far 
above,  on  a  stormy  crag,  clinging  by  its  toes,  there  stands  a  pirates' 
hut.  To  this  topmost  ledge  fishwives  sometimes  scramble  by  day; 
but  when  a  wind  shall  search  the  crannies  of  the  night,  then  no 
villager  would  dare  to  climb  so  high. 

You  will  seek  today  in  vain  the  pirates'  cabin.  Since  the 
adventure  of  our  play  a  thousands  tempests  have  snarled  across 
these  rocks.  You  must  convince  your  reason  that  these  pinnacles 
of  yesteryear,  toppled  down  by  storm,  lie  buried  in  the  sea. 

We  had  hoped  that  our  drama's  scene  might  lie  on  a  pirate  ship 
at  sea.  We  had  wished  for  a  swaying  mast,  full-set  with  canvas 
—  a  typhoon  to  smother  our  stage  in  wind.  We  had  hoped  to  walk 
a  victim  off  the  plank,  with  the  sea  roaring  in  the  wings.  But 
our  plot  deals  stubbornly  with  us.  Alas,  our  pirates  grow  old 
and  stiff.  They  have  retired,  as  we  say,  from  active  practice  and 
live  in  easy  luxury  on  shore.  Yet  we  shall  see  that  their  villany 
still  thrives. 

How  shall  we  select  a  name  for  our  frightful  play?  There  is 
a  wharf  in  London  that  is  known  as  Wapping.  In  these  days 
that  we  call  the  present  it  has  sunk  to  common  use  and  its  rotten 
timbers  are  piled  with  honest  unromantic  merchandise.  But  once 
a  gibbet  stood  on  Wapping  Wharf,  and  pirates  were  hanged  upon 
it.  It  was  the  first  convenient  harborage  for  inbound  ships  to 
dispose  of  this  dirty  deep-sea  cargo.  So  it  was  the  somber  motif  of 
a  pirate's  life  —  his  moment  of  reflection  after  he  had  slit  his 
victim's  throat. 


Tonight,  although  your  beards  grow  long  and  Time  has  marked 
its  net  of  wrinkles  —  tonight,  the  years  spin  backwards.  Only 
the  young  in  heart  will  catch  the  slender  meaning  of  our  play. 

We  are  too  quick  to  think  that  childhood  passes  with  the  years 

—  that  its  fine  fancy  is  blunted  with  the  practice  of  the  world. 

Too  long  have  we  been  taught  that  the  clouds  of  glory  fade  in  the 

common  day.     If  a  man  permits,  a  child  keeps  house  within  his 

heart. 

Our  prologue  out-stays  its  time.  Already  the  captain  of  our 
pirates  puts  on  his  hook.  The  evil  Duke  limps  for  practice  on  his 
wooden  leg.  Presently  our  curtain  will  rise.  We  shall  see  the 
pirates'  cabin,  with  the  lighthouse  in  the  distance,  Flint's  lantern 
and  the  ladder  to  the  sleeping -loft.  We  shall  hear  a  storm  unpar 
alleled  —  thunder,  lightning  and  a  rush  of  wind,  if  it  can  be 
managed. 

Then  our  candles  burn  to  socket.  Our  pasteboard  cabin  grows 
dark.  The  blustering  ocean,  the  dizzy  cliffs  of  Devon,  melt  like 
an  unsubstantial  pageant.  Once  again,  despite  the  signpost  of 
the  years,  we  have  run  on  the  "laughing  avenues  of  childhood." 


BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION 

SEVERAL  weeks  ago  an  actor-manager  re 
quested  me  to  try  my  hand  at  a  play  for  the 
winter  season.  The  offer  was  unexpected. 
"My  dear  sir,"  I  said,  "I  am  immensely  flattered, 
but  I  have  never  written  a  play."  Then  I  hastened 
to  ask,  "What  kind  of  play?"  for  fear  the  offer 
might  be  withdrawn.  He  replied  with  sureness  and 
decision.  "I  want  a  play,"  he  said,  "with  lots  of 
pirates  and — no  poetry."  He  stressed  this  with 
emphatic  gesture.  "And  at  least  one  shooting," 
he  added.  It  was  a  slim  prescription.  He  left  me 
to  brood  upon  the  matter. 

The   proposal   was  too  flattering  to  be  rejected 
out  of  hand. 

9 


10  BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION 

After  a  furious  week  upon  a  plot  and  dialogue, 
I  was  given  an  opportunity  to  display  my  wares. 
The  manager  himself  met  me  in  the  hallway.  "Is 
there  a  shooting?"  he  asked,  with  what  seemed 
almost  a  suppressed  excitement.  I  was  able  to 
satisfy  him  and  he  led  me  to  his  inner  office,  where 
he  pointed  out  an  easy  chair.  The  room  was  pleas 
antly  furnished  writh  bookshelves  to  the  ceiling. 
Evidently  his  former  ventures  had  been  prosperous, 
and  already  I  imagined  myself  come  to  fortune 
as  his  partner.  While  I  fumbled  with  embarrass 
ment  at  my  papers — for  I  dreaded  his  severe  opin 
ion — he  himself  fetched  a  basket  of  coal  for  a  fire 
that  burned  briskly  on  the  hearth.  Then  he  sat 
rigidly  at  attention. 

It  now  appeared  that  he  had  summoned  to  our 
conference  several  of  his  associates — the  subor 
dinates,  merely,  of  his  ventures — his  manager  of 
finance  (with  a  sharp  eye  for  a  business  flaw),  his 
costumer  and  designer,  and  another  person  who 
is  his  reader  and  adviser  and,  in  emergency,  fills 
and  mends  any  sudden  gap  that  shows  itself. 

My  notion  of  theatrical  managers  has  been  that 
they  are  a  cold  and  distant  race — the  more  sullen 
cousin  of  an  editor.  Is  it  not  considered  that  on 
the  reading  of  a  play  they  sit  with  fallen  chin,  and 
that  they  chill  an  author  to  reduce  his  royalty? 
It  is  naught,  it  is  naught,  saith  the  buyer.  I  am 
told  that  even  the  best  plays  are  hawked  with 
disregard  from  theatre  to  theatre,  until  the  hun- 


BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION  11 

gry  author  is  out  at  elbow.  They  get  less  civility 
than  greets  a  mean  commodity.  Worthless  min 
ing  shares  and  shoddy  gilt  editions  do  not  kick  their 
heels  with  such  disregard  in  the  outer  office.  Pop 
corn  and  apples — Armenian  laces,  even — beg  a 
quicker  audience. 

But  none  of  this  usual  brusqueness  appeared. 
Rather,  he  showed  an  agreeable  enthusiasm  as 
we  proceeded — even  an  unrestraint,  which,  I  must 
confess,  at  times  somewhat  marred  his  repose  and 
dignity.  Manifestly  it  was  not  his  intention  to 
depreciate  my  wares.  He  exchanged  frank  glances 
of  approval  with  his  subordinates — with  his  cos- 
turner  especially,  with  whom  his  relation  seems 
the  closest. 

In  the  first  act  of  my  play,  when  it  becomes  ap 
parent  that  one  of  my  pirates  goes  stumping  on 
a  timber  leg,  his  eye  flashed.  And  when  it  was 
disclosed  that  the  captain  wears  a  hook  instead  of 
hand,  he  forgot  his  professional  restraint  and  cried 
out  his  satisfaction.  He  was  soon  wrapped  in 
thought  by  the  mysterious  behaviour  of  the  fortune 
teller  and  he  said,  if  she  were  short  and  stout,  he 
had  the  very  actress  in  his  mind. 

But  it  was  in  the  second  act  that  he  threw  caution 
to  the  winds.  As  you  will  know  presently,  Red 
Joe — one  of  my  pirates — seizes  his  trusty  gun  and, 
taking  breathless  aim,  shoots — But  I  must  not 
expose  my  plot.  At  this  exciting  moment  (which 
is  quite  the  climax  of  my  play)  Belasco — or  any  of 


BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION 


his  kind  —  would  have  squinted  for  a  flaw.  He 
would  have  tilted  his  wary  nose  upon  the  ceiling 
and  told  me  that  my  plot  was  humbug.  What 
sailorman  would  mistake  a  lantern  for  a  lighthouse? 
Nor  were  there  lighthouses  in  the  days  of  the  buc 
caneers.  He  would  have  scuttled  my  play  in  dock 
and  grinned  at  the  rising  bubbles.  Mark  the  dif 
ference!  My  manager,  ignoring  these  inconsequen 
tial  errors,  burst  from  his  chair  —  this  is  amazing!— 
and  turned  a  reckless  somersault  between  the  table 
and  the  fire. 

His  costumer,  who  knows  best  how  his  eccentricity 
runs  to  riot,  checked  him  for  this  and  sent  him  to 
his  chair.  He  sobered  for  a  minute  and  the  play 
went  on.  Presently,  however,  when  the  enraged 
pirates  gathered  to  wreak  vengeance  on  their  vic 
tim,  I  saw  how  deeply  he  was  moved.  His  exultant 
eye  sought  the  bookshelves,  and  I  fancy  that  he 
was  in  meditation  whether  he  might  be  allowed  a 
handstand  with  his  heels  waving  against  the  ceiling. 
His  excited  fingers  obviously  were  searching  for  a 
dagger  in  his  boot. 

You  may  conceive  my  pleasure.  If  his  cold  and 
practiced  judgment  could  be  so  stirred,  might  I 
not  hope  that  the  phlegmatic  pit  in  shiny  shirt- 
fronts  would  rise  and  shout  its  approval  at  our 
opening?  And  to  what  reckless  license  might  not 
the  gallery  yield?  I  fancied  a  burst  of  somersaults 
in  the  upper  gloom,  and  tremendous  handsprings— 
both  men  and  women  —  down  the  sharp-pitched 


BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION  13 

aisle.  It  would  be  shocking — this  giddy  flash  of 
lingerie — except  that  our  broader  times  now  give 
it  countenance.  Peeping  Tom,  late  of  Coventry, 
in  these  more  generous  days  need  no  longer  sit 
like  a  sneak  at  his  private  shutter.  He  has  only  to 
travel  to  the  beach  where  a  hundred  Godivas  crowd 
the  sands.  I  saw  myself  on  the  great  occasion  of 
our  opening  night  bowing  in  white  tie  from  the 
forward  box. 

Our  conference  was  successful.  When  the  read 
ing  of  the  play  was  finished  and  the  wicked  pirates 
stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  gibbet,  he  thanked  me 
and  excused  himself  from  further  attendance  by 
reason  of  a  prior  engagement.  Under  the  stress 
of  selection  for  his  theatre  he  cannot  sleep  at  night, 
and  his  costumer  wisely  packs  him  off  early  to  his 
bed.  She  whispers  to  me,  however,  that  although 
he  had  hopes  for  a  storm  at  sea  and  a  hanging  at 
the  end,  his  decision,  nevertheless,  is  cast  in  my 
favor  for  a  quick  production,  whenever  a  worthy 

company    can     be     as-   

sembled. 

But  we  have  gone 
still  further  toward  our 
opening.  The  manager 
has  already  whittled  a 
dozen  daggers  and  they 
lie  somewhere  on  a  shelf, 

awaiting  a  COat  of  silver  On  the  tip  of  each  he  has  bar- 
paint.  On  the  tip  of  gained  for  a  spot  of  red 


14  BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION 

each  he  has  bargained  for  a  spot  of  red.  Further 
more,  he  owns  a  pistol — a  harmless,  devicerated 
thing — and  he  pops  it  daily  at  any  rogue  that  may 
be  lurking  on  the  cellar  stairs. 

All  pirates  wear  pigtails — pirates,  that  is,  of  the 
upper  crust  (the  Kidds  and  Flints  and  Morgans) — 
and  at  first  this  was  a  knotty  problem.  But  he  ob 
tained  a  number  of  old  stockings — stockings,  of 
course,  beyond  the  skill  of  that  versatile  person 
who  mends  the  gaps — and  he  has  wound  them  on 
wires,  curling  them  upward  at  the  end  and  tieing 
them  with  bits  of  ribbon.  The  pirate  captain  is 
allowed  an  extra  inch  of  pigtail  to  exalt  him  above 
his  fellows.  When  he  first  adjusted  this  pigtail 
on  himself,  his  costumer  cried  out  that  he  looked 
like  a  Chinaman.  This  was  downright  stupidity 
and  was  hardly  worthy  of  her  perception;  but 
ladies  cannot  be  expected  to  recognize  a  pirate  so 
instinctively  as  we  rougher  men.  The  stocking, 
however,  was  clipped  to  half  its  length,  and  now 
he  is  every  inch  a  buccaneer. 

As  for  the  captain's  hook,  he  is  resourcefulness 
itself.  These  things  are  secrets  of  the  craft,  but 
I  may  hint  that  there  is  a  very  suitable  hook  in  a 
butchershop  around  the  corner.  Surely  the  butcher 
—warmed  to  generosity  by  the  family  patronage- 
would  lend  it  for  the  great  performance.  I  have 
no  doubt  but  that  the  manager,  from  this  time 
forward,  will  beg  all  errands  in  his  direction  and 
that  his  smile  will  thaw  the  friendly  butcher  to 


BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION 


15 


His  smile  will  thaw  the  friendly  butcher  to  his  purpose 

his  purpose.  Certainly  two  legs  of  lamb,  if  whis 
pered  that  the  drama  is  at  stake,  will  consent  to 
hang  for  one  tremendous  day  upon  a  single  hook. 
Our  hook  is  to  be  screwed  into  a  block  of  wood,  and 
there  is  something  about  knuckles  and  a  cord  around 
the  wrist  and  a  long  sleeve  to  cover  up  the  joining. 
Anyway,  the  problem  has  been  met. 

In  the  furnace  room  he  has  found  a  heavy  sheet 


16  BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION 

of  tin  for  the  thunder  storm,  and  I  have  suggested 
that  he  dig  in  a  nearby  gravel  pit  for  a  basket  of 
rain  to  hurl  against  the  pirates'  window.  But  hard 
beans,  he  says,  are  better,  and  he  has  won  the  cook's 
consent.  For  the  slow  monotone  of  water  dripping 
from  the  roof  in  our  second  act,  a  single  bean,  he 
tells  me,  dropped  gently  in  a  pan  is  a  baffling  coun 
terfeit. 

The  lightning  seems  not  to  bother  him,  for  he 
owns  a  pocket  flashlight;  but  the  mighty  wind  that 
comes  brawling  from  the  ocean  was  at  first  a  sticker. 
The  vacuum  cleaner  popped  into  his  head,  but 
was  put  aside.  The  fireplace  bellows  were  too  feeble 
for  any  wind  that  had  grown  a  beard.  His  manager 
of  finance,  however,  laid  aside  his  book  one  night— 
a  weary  tract  upon  the  law — and  displayed  an  ability 
to  moan  and  whistle  through  his  teeth.  The  very 
casement  rattled  in  the  blast.  He  has  agreed  to 
sit  in  the  wings  and  loose  a  sufficient  storm  upon 
a  given  signal. 

Our  stage  is  cramped.  Three  strides  stretch 
from  side  to  side.  "Can  this  cockpit"  you  ask, 
"hold  the  vasty  fields  of  France?"  It  is  not,  of 
course,  the  vasty  fields  of  France  that  we  are  trying 
to  hold;  but  we  do  lack  space  for  the  kind  of  riot 
the  manager  has  in  mind  in  the  final  scene.  He 
wants  nothing  girlish.  Sabers  and  pistols  are  his 
demand — a  knife  between  the  teeth — and  more 
yelling  than  I  could  possibly  put  down  in  print.  A 
bench  must  be  upset,  the  beer-cask  overturned,  a 


BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION  17 

jug  of  Darlin's  grog  spilled,  and  one  stool,  at  least, 
must  be  smashed — preferably  on  the  captain's  head, 
who  must,  however,  be  consulted.  Patch-Eye  and 
the  Duke  are  not  the  kind  of  pirates  that  lie  down 
and  whine  for  mercy  at  a  single  punch. 

At  first  our  manager  was  baffled  how  the  pirates 
were  to  ascend  a  ladder  to  their  sleeping  loft.  They 
had  no  place  to  go.  They  would  crack  their  ugly 
heads  upon  the  ceiling.  The  costumer  was  positive 
(parsimony!)  that  a  hole — even  a  little  hole — 
should  not  be  cut  in  the  plaster  overhead  for  their 
disappearance.  If  the  chandelier  had  been  an 
honest  piece  of  metal  they  might  have  perched  on 
it  until  the  act  ran  out.  Or  perhaps  the  candles 
could  be  extinguished  when  their  legs  were  still 
climbing  visibly.  At  last  the  manager  has  con 
trived  that  a  plank  be  laid  across  the  tops  of  two 
step-ladders,  behind  a  drop  so  that  the  audience 
cannot  see.  No  reasonable  pirate  could  refuse  to 
squat  upon  the  plank  until  the  curtain  fell. 

We  are  getting  on.  Our  company  has  been  selected. 
We  need  only  a 
handful  of  ac 
tors,  but  the 
manager  has  en 
listed  the  street. 
The  dearest  lit 
tle  girl  has  been 
chosen  for  Betsy, 

and  each  day  she  With  uncertain,  questing  finger 


18  BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION 

practices  her  lullaby  at  the  piano  with  uncertain, 
questing  finger.  A  gentle  rowdy  of  twelve  will 
speak  the  Duke's  blood-curdling  lines.  I  under 
stand  that  two  quarrelsome  pirates  have  nearly 
come  to  blows  which  shall  act  the  captain.  The 
hero,  Red  Joe,  will  be  played  by  the  manager  him 
self,  for  it  is  he  who  owns  the  pistol.  Is  not  the 
boy  who  has  the  baseball  the  captain  of  his 
nine? 

I  owe  an  apology  to  all  the  mothers  of  our  cast; 
for  the  rough  language  of  my  lines  outweighs  their 
gentler  home  instruction.  Whenever  several  of 
our  actors  meet  there  is  used  the  vile  language  of 
the  sea.  By  the  bones  of  my  ten  fingers  has  replaced 
the  anemic  oaths  of  childhood.  One  little  girl  has 
been  told  she  cries  as  easily  as  a  crocodile.  An 
other  little  girl  was  heard  to  say  she  would  slit  her 
sister's  wisdom — a  slip,  no  doubt,  for  wizen.  And 
Blast  my  lamps!  and  Sink  my  timbers!  are  rolled 
profanely  on  the  tongue. 

In  every  attic  on  the  street  a  rakish  craft  flies 
the  skull  and  crossbones,  and  roves  the  Spanish 
Main  on  rainy  afternoons.  Innocent  victims- 
girls,  chiefly,  who  will  tattle  unless  a  horrid  threat 
is  laid  upon  them — are  forced  blindfold  to  walk 
the  plank.  If  the  wind  blows,  scratching  the  trees 
against  the  roof,  it  is,  by  their  desire,  a  tempest 
whirling  their  stout  ship  upon  the  rocks.  What 
ho!  We  split!  Mysterious  chalkings  mark  the 
cellar  stairs  and  hint  of  treasure  buried  in  the  coal- 


BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION 


19 


hole.     At  every  mirror  pirates  practice  their  cruel 
faces. 


Innocent  victims  .   .  .  are  forced  blindfold  to  walk  the  plank 

And  now  the  daggers  are  complete,  and  their 
tip  of  blood  has  been  squeezed  from  its  twisted 
tube.  Chests  and  neighbors  have  been  rummaged 


BY   WAY  OF  EXPLANATION 


for  outlandish  costumes.  From  the  kindling-pile  a 
predestined  stick  has  become  the  timber  leg  of 
the  wicked  Duke.  The  butcher's  hook  has  yielded 
to  persuasion. 

Presently  rehearsals  will  begin— 

I  have  been  reading  lately,  and  I  have  come  on 
a  sentence  with  which  I  am  in  disagreement.  I 
shall  not  tell  the  name  of  the  book  (mere  mulish- 
ness!)  but  I  hope  you  know  it  or  can  guess.  It  is  a 
tale  of  children  and  of  a  runaway  perambulator 
and  of  folk  who  never  quite  grew  up,  with  just  a 
flick  of  inquiry — a  slightest  gesture  now  and  then— 
toward  precious  rascals  like  our  Patch-Eye  and  the 
Duke.  It's  author  stands,  in  my  opinion,  a  better 
chance  of  our  lasting  memory  than  any  writer 
living. 

If  you  have  read  this  book,  you  have  known  in 
its  author  a  man  who  is  himself  a  child — one  from 
whom  the  years  have  never  taken  toll.  And  if  you 
have  lingered  from  page  to  page,  you  know  what 
humor  is,  and  love  and  gentleness.  I  think  that 
children  must  have  clambered  on  his  familiar  knee 
and  that  he  learned  his  plot  from  their  trustful 
eyes. 

Someone  has  been  reading  my  very  copy  of  this 
book,  for  it  is  marked  with  pencil  and  whole  chap 
ters  have  been  thumbed.  I  would  like  to  know  who 
this  reader  is — a  woman,  beyond  a  doubt — who 
has  dug  in  this  fashion  to  the  author's  heart.  But 


BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION  21 

the  book  is  from  a  lending  library.  She  is  only  a 
number  pasted  inside  the  cover,  a  date  that  warns 
her  against  a  fine. 

Her  pencil  has  marked  the  words  to  a  richer 
cadence.  I  like  to  think  that  she  has  children  of 
her  own  and  that  she  read  the  book  at  twilight  in 
the  nursery,  and  that  its  mirth  was  shared  from 
bed  to  bed.  But  the  pathetic  parts  she  did  not  read 
aloud,  fearing  to  see  tears  in  her  children's  eyes. 
Before  her  own  at  times  there  must  have  floated  a 
mist.  She  is  a  gracious  creature,  I  am  sure,  with  a 
gentleness  that  only  a  mother  knows  who  sits  with 
drowsy  children.  And  now  that  it  is  my  turn  to 
read  the  book — for  so  does  fancy  urge  me — I  hear 
her  voice  and  the  echo  of  her  children's  laughter 
among  the  pages. 

It  is  a  book  about  a  great  many  things — about 
David  and  about  a  sausage  machine,  about  a  little 
dog  which  was  supposed  to  have  been  caught  up 
by  mistake.  But  when  the  handle  was  reversed 
out  he  came,  whole  and  complete  except  that  his 
bark  was  missing.  A  sausage  still  stuck  to  his  tail, 
which  presently  he  ate.  And  it  proved  to  be  his 
bark,  for  at  the  last  bite  of  the  sausage  his  bark  re 
turned.  And  David  took  his  salty  handkerchief 
from  his  eyes  and  laughed.  There  is  a  chapter  on 
growing  old — marked  in  pencil — a  subject  which 
the  author  of  this  book  knew  nothing  about,  never 
having  grown  old  himself.  And  there  is  another 
chapter  about  a  spinster,  also  marked.  This  chap- 


22  BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION 

ter  sings  with  exquisite  melody,  but  breaks  once 
to  a  sob  for  a  love  that  has  been  lost.  But  the  book 
is  chiefly  about  children. 

There  is  one  particular  sentence  in  this  book 
with  which  I  am  not  in  agreement.  ".  .  .  down 
the  laughing  avenues  of  childhood,  where  memory 
tells  us  we  run  but  once.  ..."  I  cannot  believe 
that.  I  cannot  believe  we  run  but  once.  In  the 
heart  of  the  man  who  wrote  the  book  there  lives  a 
child.  And  a  child  dwells  in  the  heart  of  the  woman 
of  the  lending  library. 

We  are  too  ready  to  believe  that  childhood  passes 
with  the  years — that  its  fine  imagination  is  blunted 
with  the  hard  practice  of  the  world.  Too  long 
have  we  been  taught  that  the  clouds  of  glory  fade 
in  the  common  day — that  the  lofty  castles  of  the 
morning  perish  in  the  noon-day  sun.  The  magic 
vista  is  golden  to  the  coming  of  the  twilight,  and 
the  sunset  builds  a  gaudy  tower  that  out-tops  the 
dawn.  If  a  man  permits,  a  child  keeps  house  within 
his  heart  to  the  very  end. 

And  therefore,  as  I  think  of  those  whittled  dag 
gers  with  their  spot  of  blood,  of  that  popping  pistol, 
of  the  captain's  horrid  hook,  of  the  black  craft 
flying  the  skull  and  crossbones  in  the  attic,  I  know, 
despite  appearance,  that  I  am  young  myself.  I 
snap  my  fingers  at  the  clock.  It  ticks  merely  for 
its  own  amusement.  I  proclaim  the  calendar  is 
false.  The  sun  rises  and  sets  but  makes  no  chilling 
notch  upon  the  heart.  Once  again,  despite  the 


BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION 


weary  signpost  of  the  years,  I  run  on  the  laughing 
avenues  of  childhood. 


My  preface  outstays  its  time.  Even  as  I  write 
our  audience  has  gathered.  Limber  folk  in  front 
squat  on  the  floor.  Bearded  folk  behind  perch  on 
chairs  as  on  a  balcony.  Already,  behind  the  scenes, 
the  captain  of  the  pirates  has  assumed  his  hook  and 
villainous  attire.  Patch-Eye  mumbles  his  lines 
against  a  loss  of  memory.  Paint  has  daubed  him 
to  a  rascal.  The  evil  Duke  limps  for  practice  on 
his  timber  leg.  Presently  our  curtain  will  rise. 
We  shall  see  the  pirate  cabin,  with  the  lighthouse 
blinking  in  the  distance,  the  parrot,  Flint's  lantern 
and  the  ladder  to  the  sleeping  loft.  We  shall  hear 
a  storm  unparalleled,  like  a  tempest  from  the  ocean- 
hissed  through  the  teeth.  We  shall  see  the  pirates 
in  tattered  costume  and  in  pigtails  made  of  stock 
ings. 

And  now  to  bring  this  tedious  explanation  to  a 
close,  permit  me  to  hush  our  orchestra  for  a  final 
word.  I  have  a  most  important  announcement. 
It  is  the  sum  and  essence  of  all  these  pages.  This 


24  BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION 

play  of  pirates — doctored  somewhat  with  fiercer 
oaths  and  lengthened  for  older  actors — this  play 
and  my  other  play  of  beggars  I  dedicate  with  my 
love  to  John  Abram  Flory,  who,  as  Red  Joe,  was 
the  most  frightful  pirate  of  them  all. 


ON   CHOOSING  A  TITLE 

I   FIND  difficulty  in  selecting  a  name  for  my 
pirate  play.     Children  seem  so  easy  in  com 
parison — John  or  Gretchen,  or  Gwendolyn  for 
parents    of    romantic    taste.     Gwendolyn    I    myself 
dislike,   and  I  have  thought  I  would  give  it  to  a 
cow  if  ever  I  owned  a  farm.     But  this  is  prejudice. 
To  name  a  child,  I  repeat,  one  needs  only  to  run 
his   finger   down   the   column   of   his   acquaintance, 
or  think   which   aunt   will   have  the   looser   purse- 
strings  in  her  will. 

An  unhappy  choice,  after  all,  is  rare.  Here  and 
there  a  chocolate  Pearl  or  a  dusky  crinkle-headed 
Blanche  escapes  our  logic;  but  who  can  think  of  a 
sullen  Nancy?  Its  very  sound,  tossed  about  the 
nursery,  would  brighten  a  maiden  even  if  she  were 
peevish  at  the  start.  I  once  knew  an  excellent 
couple  of  the  name  of  Bottom,  who  chose  Ruby  for 
their  offspring;  but  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  in- 

25 


26  ON  CHOOSING  A   TITLE 

felicity  was  altered  at  the  font.  The  fact  is  that 
most  of  our  names  grow  in  time  to  fit  our  figure  and 
our  character.  Margaret  and  Helen  sound  thin 
or  fat,  agreeable  or  dull,  as  our  friends  and  neigh 
bors  rise  before  us;  and  any  newcomer  to  our  affec 
tion  quickly  erases  the  aspect  of  its  former  ugly 
tenant.  I  confess  that  till  lately  a  certain  name 
brought  to  my  fancy  a  bouncing,  red-armed  crea 
ture;  but  that  by  a  change  of  lease  upon  our  street 
it  has  acquired  an  alien  grace  and  beauty.  Perhaps 
a  scrawny  neighbor  by  the  name  of  Falstaff  might 
remain  inconsequent,  but  I  am  sure  that  if  a  lady 
called  Messilina  moved  in  next  door  and  were  of 
charming  manner,  a  month  would  blur  the  bad  sug 
gestion  of  her  name;  which  presently — if  our  gar 
dens  ran  together — would  come  to  sound  sweetly 
in  my  ears. 

But  a  play  (more  than  a  child  or  neighbor)  is 
offered  for  a  sudden  judgment — to  sink  or  swim 
upon  a  first  impression — and  its  christening  is  an 
especial  peril.  I  have  fretted  for  a  month  to  find  a 
title  for  my  comedy. 

My  first  choice  was  A  Frightful  Play  of  Pirates. 
In  the  word  frightful  lay  the  double  meaning  that 
I  wanted.  It  held  up  my  hands,  as  it  were,  for 
mercy.  It  is  an  old  device.  Did  not  Keats,  when 
a  novice  in  his  art,  attempt  by  a  modest  preface  to 
disarm  the  critics  of  his  Endymion?  "It  is  just," 
he  wrote,  "that  this  youngster  should  die  away." 
Yet  my  title  was  too  long.  I  could  not  hope,  if 


ON  CHOOSING  A    TITLE 


my  comedy  reached  the  boards,  that  a  manager 
could  afford  such  a  long  display  of  electric  lights 
above  the  door.  It  would  require  more  than  a  barrel 
of  lamps. 

The  Pirates  of  Clovelly  was  not  bad,  except  for 
length,  but  it  was  too  obviously  stolen  from  Gil 
bert's  opera.  I  could  feel  my  guilty  fingers  in  his 
pocket. 

'S  Death  was  suggested,  but  it  was  too  flippant, 
too  farcical.  'S  Blood,  although  effective  in  red 
lights,  met  the  same  objection.  The  Spittin  Devil, 
named  for  our  pirate  ship,  lacked  refinement.  Cer 
tainly  no  lady  in  silk  and  lace  would  admit  ac 
quaintance  with  so  gross  a  personage. 

Darliri  was  offered  to  me  —  the  name  of  the  old 
lady  with  one  tooth  who  cooks  and  mixes  the  grog 
for  my  sailormen.  And  I  still  think  that  with  better 
spelling  it  would  be  an  excellent  title  for  musical 
comedy.  But  it  was  naught  for  a  pirate  play.  Its 
anemia  would  soften  the  vigor  of  my  lines.  One 
could  as  well  call  the  tale  of  Bluebeard  by  the  name 
of  his  casual  cook. 

Then  Clovelly  seemed  enough.  At  the  very  least— 
if  my  publisher  were  energetic  —  it  ensured  a  brisk 
sale  of  the  printed  play  among  the  American  tourists 
on  the  Devon  coast,  who  travel  by  boat  or  char-a- 
banc  to  this  ancient  fishing  village  where  we  set  our 
plot.  For  even  a  trivial  book  sells  to  trippers  if 
its  story  is  laid  around  the  corner.  Would  it  not  be 
pleasant,  I  thought,  when  I  visit  the  place  again, 


28  ON  CHOOSING  A    TITLE 

to  see  them  thumbing  me  as  they  waited  for  the 
steamer — to  see  a  whole  window  of  myself  placed 
in  equal  prominence  with  picture  postal  cards? 
When  I  registered  at  the  inn  alongside  the  wharf 
might  I  not  hope  that  the  landlady  would  recognize 
my  name  and  give  me,  as  an  honored  guest,  a  front 
room  that  looks  upon  the  ocean?  Perhaps,  as  I 
had  my  tea  and  clotted  cream  on  the  village  stair 
case,  I  might  mention  casually  to  a  pretty  tourist 
that  I  was  the  author  of  the  book  that  protruded 
from  her  handbag — and  fetch  my  dishes  to  her 
table. 

It  is  so  seldom  that  an  obscure  author  catches 
anyone  flagrante  dilicto  on  his  book.  Will  no  one 
ever  read  a  book  of  mine  in  the  subway,  that  I  may 
tap  him  on  the  shoulder?  Do  travelers  never  put 
me  in  their  grips?  Must  everyone  read  in  public 
the  latest  novel,  and  reserve  all  plays  and  essays 
for  their  solitary  hours?  At  the  club  I  shuffle  to 
the  top  any  periodical  that  contains  my  name,  but 
the  crowded  noon  buries  me  deep  again. 

At  best,  maybe,  in  a  lending  library,  I  see  a  date 
stamped  inside  my  cover;  but,  although  I  linger 
near  the  shelf,  no  one  comes  to  draw  me  down. 
I  think  that  hunters  must  look  with  equal  hunger 
on  the  bear's  tread.  'T  is  here!  'T  is  there!  But 
the  cunning  creature  has  escaped.  Blackmore's 
pleasant  ghost  frequents  the  shadowy  church  at 
Porlock  where  he  married  Lorna  and  John  Ridd, 
or  roams  the  Valley  of  the  Rocks  to  see  the  studious 


ON  CHOOSING  A    TITLE  29 

pilgrims  at  his  pages.  Stevenson  haunts  the  gloomy 
inlet  where  the  Admiral  Benbow  stood  and  where 
old  Pew  came  tapping  in  the  night.  In  the  flesh 
I  shall  join  their  revels  as  an  equal  comrade.  Clovelly, 
however,  although  its  lilt  was  pleasant  to  the  ear, 
was  an  insufficient  title. 

Skull  and  Crossbones  was  too  obvious,  and  my 
next  choice  was  The  Gibbet.  But  there  was  the 
disadvantage  of  scaring  the  timid.  Old  ladies  would 
pass  me  by.  It  would  check  the  sale  of  tickets. 
My  nephew,  who  is  fourteen  and  not  at  all  timid, 
was  stout  in  its  defense.  He  pronounces  it  as  if  the 
g  were  the  hard  kind  that  starts  off  gurgle.  Gibbet! 
He  asked  me  if  I  had  a  hanging  in  the  piece.  If 
so,  he  knew  how  the  business  could  be  managed 
without  chance  of  accident — an  extra  rope  fastened 
to  the  belt  behind.  I  told  him  that  it  was  none  of 
his  business  how  I  ended  up  the  pirates.  I  would 
hang  them  or  not,  as  I  saw  fit.  He  would  have  to 
pay  his  quarter  like  anybody  else  and  sit  it  through. 

He  suggested  From  Dish-Pan  to  Matrimony — 
obviously  a  jest.  The  sly  rogue  laughs  at  me.  I 
must  confess,  however,  that  he  has  given  me  some 
of  my  best  lines.  "Villainy  's  afoot!"  for  example, 
and  "Sink  me  stern  up!"  His  peaceful  school 
breeds  a  wealth  of  pungent  English. 

I  was  in  despair.  Revenge!  Would  that  have 
done?  I  see  a  maddened  father  stand  with  smok 
ing  revolver  above  the  body  of  a  silky-whiskered 
villain.  "Doris,"  the  panting  parent  cries,  "the 


30  ON  CHOOSING  A   TITLE 

butcher  boy  knows  all  and  wants  you  for  his  bride." 
And  down  comes  the  happy  curtain  on  the  lovers. 
The  Wreckers  belongs  to  Stevenson.  The  Pirates' 
Nest!  It  is  too  ornithological.  The  Natural  History 
Museum  might  buy  a  copy  and  think  I  had  cheated 
them. 

And  then  Channel  Lights!  It  sends  us  sharply 
to  the  days  of  the  older  melodrama — days  when  we 
exchanged  a  ten-cent  piece  for  a  gallery  seat  and 
hissed  the  villain.  Do  you  recall  the  breathless 
moment  when  the  heroine  implored  the  villain  to 
give  her  back  her  stolen  child?  For  answer  the 
cruel  fellow  tied  the  darling  to  the  buzz-saw.  Or 
that  darker  scene  when  he  tossed  the  lady  to  the 
black  waters  of  the  Thames,  with  the  splash  of  a 
dipper  up  behind?  Hurry,  master  hero!  Your 
horse's  hoofs  clatter  in  the  wings.  Gallop,  Dobbin! 
A  precious  life  depends  upon  your  speed.  Our 
dangerous  plot  hangs  by  a  single  thread. 

It  is  quite  a  task  to  find  a  sufficient  title.  I  have 
wavered  for  a  month. 

But  now  my  efforts  seem  rewarded. 

There  is  a  wharf  in  London  below  the  Tower, 
not  far  from  the  India  docks.  It  has  now  sunk  to 
common  week-day  uses,  and  I  suppose  its  rotten 
timbers  are  piled  with  honest,  unromantic  mer 
chandise.  But  once  pirates  were  hanged  there. 
It  was  the  first  convenient  place  for  in-bound  ships 
to  dispose  of  this  dirty,  deep-sea  cargo.  Doubtless 
hereabout  the  lanes  and  building-tops  were  crowded 


ON  CHOOSING  A    TITLE  31 

with  an  idle  throng  as  on  a  holiday,  and  wherries 
to  the  bankside  and  the  play  paused  with  suspended 
oar  for  a  sight  of  the  happy  festival.  Did  Hamlet 
wait  upon  this  ghastly  prologue?  Shakespeare 
himself,  unplayed  script  in  hand,  mused  how  tragedy 
and  farce  go  hand  in  hand.  In  those  golden  days 
with  which  our  comedy  concerns  itself,  a  gibbet 
stood  on  Wapping  wharf  and  pirates  stepped  off 
the  fatal  cart  to  a  hangman's  jest.  We  may  hear 
the  shouts  of  the  'prentice  lads  echoing  across  the 
centuries. 

I  cannot  hope  that  many  persons — except  dusty 
scholars — will  know  of  the  district's  ancient  ill- 
repute,  yet  Wapping  wharf  figures  often  in  my 
dialogue  as  the  somber  motif  of  a  pirate's  life.  It 
conveys  to  the  plot  the  sense  of  mystery.  It  needs 
but  a  handful  of  electric  lamps. 

If  no  one  offers  me  a  better  title  I  shall  let  it 
stand. 


Wappin'  Wharf 
A  Frightful  Comedy  of  Pirates 


33 


First  produced  in  January,  1922,  at  the  Play  House,  Cleveland, 
under  the  direction  of  Frederic  McConnell.  The  settings  and 
costumes  were  designed  by  Julia  McCune  Flory.  The  cast  was 
as  follows: 

THE  DUKE  William  C.  Keough 

PATCH-EYE  Howard  Burns 

THE  CAPTAIN  Ewart  Whitworth 

RED  JOE  K.  Elmo  Lowe 

DARLIN'  Mary  Gilson 

BETSY  Jeanette  Geoghegan 

OLD  MEG  Emma  Tilden 

SAILOR  CAPTAIN  Ganson  Cook 

SAILORS  Vance  Stewart,  Alvin  Shulman, 

Arthur  Kraus 


Wappin'  Wharf 

A  Frightful  Comedy  of  Pirates 

ACT  I 

Our  scene  is  the  wind-swept  coast  of  Devon.  By  day 
there  is  a  wide  stretch  of  ocean  far  below.  The 
time  is  remote  and  doubtless  great  ships  of  forgotten 
build  stand  out  from  Bristol  in  full  sail  for  western 
shores.  Their  white  canvas  winks  in  the  morning 
sun  as  if  their  purpose  were  a  jest.  They  seek  a 
northwest  passage  and  the  golden  mines  of  India. 
But  we  must  be  loose  and  free  of  date  lest  our  plot  be 
shamed  by  broken  fact.  A  thousand  years  are  but 
as  yesterday.  We  shall  make  no  more  than  a  gen 
eral  gesture  toward  the  wide  spaces  of  the  past. 

The  village  of  Clovelly  climbs  in  a  single  street — a  stair 
case,  really — from  tJie  shore  to  the  top  of  the  cliff, 
and  is  fagged  and  out  of  breath  half  way.  But  on  a 

35 


36  WAPPIW   WHARF 

still  dizzier  crag,  storm-blown,  clinging  by  its  toes, 
there  stands  the  pirates'  cabin.  To  this  top-most 
ledge  fishwives  sometimes  scramble  by  day  to  seek  a 
belated  sail  against  Lundy's  Isle.  But  after  twi 
light  a  night  wind  searches  the  crannies  of  the  rock 
and  whines  to  the  moon  of  its  barren  quest,  and  then 
no  villager,  I  think,  chooses  to  walk  in  that  direc 
tion.  I  have  visited  Clovelly  and  have  kicked  a 
sodden  donkey  from  the  wharf  to  the  top  of  the 
street,  past  the  shops  of  Devon  cream  and  picture 
postal  cards,  but  have  sought  in  vain  the  pirates' 
cabin.  Since  our  far-off  adventure  of  tonight  ten 
thousand  tempests  have  snarled  across  these  giddy 
cliffs  and  we  must  convince  our  reason  that  these 
highest  crags  where  we  pitch  our  plot  have  long 
since  been  toppled  in  a  storm.  Where  yonder  wave 
lathers  the  shaggy  headland,  as  if  Neptune  had 
turned  barber,  we  must  fancy  that  the  pinnacles 
of  yesteryear  lie  buried  in  the  sea. 

We  had  hoped  for  a  play  upon  the  sea,  with  a  tall  mast 
rocking  from  wing  to  wing  and  a  tempest  roaring 
at  the  rail.  Alas!  Our  pirates  grow  old  and  stiff. 
They  have  retired,  as  we  say,  from  active  practice 
and  live  in  idle  luxury  on  shore.  Yet  we  shall  see 
that  their  villainy  still  thrives. 

Our  scene  is  tJieir  cabin  on  the  cliff.  It  is  a  rough  stone 
building  with  peeling  plaster  and  slates  that  by 
day  are  green  with  moss.  But  it  is  night  and  the 
wind  is  whistling  its  rowdy  companions  from  the 
sea.  Until  the  morning  they  will  play  at  leap-frog 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  37 

from  cliff  to  cliff.  Far  below  is  the  village  of 
Clovelly,  snug  with  fire  and  candles. 
We  enter  the  cabin  without  knocking — like  neighbors 
through  a  garden — and  poke  about  a  bit  before  our 
hosts  appear.  A  door,,  forward  at  the  right,  leads 
to  the  kitchen.  Back  stage,  also,  at  the  right,  a 
ladder  rises  to  a  sleeping  loft.  On  the  left  wall  are  a 
chimney  and  fireplace  with  a  crane  and  pot  for 
heating  grog,  and  smoky  timbers  above  to  mark 
the  frequent  thirst.  On  a  great  beam  overhead  are 
bags  of  clinking  loot  and  shining  brasses  from 
wrecked  ships.  Peppers  hang  to  dry  before  the 
fire,  and  a  lighted  ship's  lantern  swings  from  a 
hook.  At  the  rear  of  the  cabin,  to  the  left,  a  row  of 
mullioned  windows  looks  at  sea  and  cliffs  in  a 
flash  of  lightning.  Below  is  a  seaman's  chest. 
Above,  on  the  broken  plaster,  is  scrawled  a  ship. 
In  the  middle,  at  the  rear,  there  is  a  clock  with 
hanging  pendulum  and  weights.  A  gun  of  antique 
pattern  leans  beside  the  clock.  To  the  right  the 
cabin  is  recessed,  with  a  door  right-angled  in  the 
jog  and  other  windows  looking  on  the  sea.  A 
parrot  sits  on  its  perch  with  curbed  profanity. 
The  gaudy  creature  is  best  if  stuffed,  for  its  noisy 
tongue  would  drown  our  dialogue.  Like  Hamlet's 
player  it  would  speak  beyond  its  lines  and  raise  a 
quantity  of  barren  laughter.  Our  furniture  is  a 
table  and  three  stools,  and  a  tall-backed  chair  be 
side  the  hearth.  On  the  table  a  candle  burns,  bespat 
tered  with  tallow.  The  cabin  glows  with  fire  light. 


38 


WAPPIN'  WHARF 


At  the  lifting  of  the  curtain  there  is  thunder  and  light 
ning,  and  a  rush  of  wind — if  it  can  be  managed. 
Two  pirates  are  discovered,  drinking  at  the  table. 
By  the  smack  of  their  lips  it  is  excellent  grog.  One 


Two  pirates  are  discovered  drinking  at  a  table 


WAPPIW   WHARF  39 

of  them — Patch-Eye — has  lost  an  eye  and  he 
wears  a  black  patch.  His  hair  curls  up  in  a  pig 
tail,  like  any  sailor  before  Nelson.  It  looks  as 
stiff  as  a  hook  and  he  might  almost  be  lifted  by 
it  and  hung  on  a  peg.  But  all  of  our  pirates  wear 
pigtails — except  one,  Red  Joe. 

The  other  pirate  at  the  table  is  called  the  Duke,  for  no 
apparent  reason  as  he  is  a  shabby  rogue.  We 
must  not  run  our  finger  down  the  peerage  in  hope 
of  finding  him,  or  think  that  he  owns  a  palace  on 
the  Strand.  He  has  only  one  leg,  with  a  timber 
below  the  knee.  He  wears  a  long  cloak  so  that  the 
actor's  rusticated  leg  can  be  folded  out  of  sight. 
The  Duke  has  a  great  red  nose — grog  and  rum 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  His  whiskers  are  the  bush 
that  marks  the  merry  drinking  place. 

Patch-Eye  is  melancholy — almost  sentimental  at  times. 
He  would  stab  a  man,  but  grieve  upon  a  sparrow. 
At  heart  we  fear  he  is  a  coward,  and  stupid.  The 
Duke,  on  the  contrary,  is  shrewd  and  he  does  a 
lot  of  thinking.  He  has  heavy  eyebrows.  He  is 
the  kind  of  thinker  that  you  just  know  that  he  is 
thinking.  Both  pirates  are  very  cruel — and  pro 
fane,  but  we  must  be  careful. 

And  now  we  hush  the  melancholy  fiddlers.  If  this 
comedy  can  stir  the  croaking  bass-viol  to  any  show 
of  mirth,  our  work  tops  Falstaff.  Glum  folk  with 
beards  had  best  withdraw.  Only  the  young  in 
heart  will  catch  the  slender  meaning  of  our  play. 
Let  's  light  the  candles  and  draw  the  curtain! 


40  WAPPIN*   WHARF 


PATCH:  Darlin'!  Darlin'!  (He  lolls  back  in  his 
chair  and  stretches  out  his  legs  for  comfort.}  Darlin'! 

(At  this  a  dirty  old  woman  with  one  tooth  appears 
from  the  kitchen.  She  is  called  Darlin1  just  for 
fun,  as  she  is  not  at  all  kissable.  A  sprig  of 
mistletoe,  even  in  the  Christmas  season,  would 
beckon  vainly.} 

PATCH:  Me  friend,  the  Duke,  is  thirsty.  Will  yer 
fill  the  cups?  Hurry,  ol'  dear!  And  squeeze  in  jest  a 
bit  o'  lemon.  It  sets  the  stomich. 

DARLIN':  Yer  sets  yer  stomich  like  it  were  hen's 
eggs.  Alers  coddlin'  it. 

(She  stirs  and  tastes  the  pot  of  grog,  and  hoists  her 
wrinkled  stockings.} 

DUKE:  There  's  no  one  like  Darlin'  fer  mixin'  grog. 

DARLIN':  Fer  that  kind  word  I'm  lovin'  yer.  (She 
looks  at  him  with  admiration.}  Ain  't  he  a  figger  o'  a 
man?  Wenus  was  nothin'.  Jest  nothin'  at  all. 

PATCH:  It's  grog  beats  off  the  melancholy.  As 
soon  as  me  pipes  go  dry,  I  gets  homesick  fer  the 
ocean.  Here  we  be,  Duke,  thrown  up  at  last  ter  rot 
like  driftwood  on  the  shore.  No  more  sailin'  off  to 
Trinidad!  No  tackin'  'round  the  Hebrides!  We  is 
ships  as  has  sprung  a  leak.  It  was  'appy  days  when 
we  sailed  with  ol'  Flint  on  the  Spanish  Main. 

DUKE:  'Appy  days,  Patch!    (They  drink.) 

PATCH:  Aye!  The  blessed,  dear,  ol'  roarin'  hulk. 
No  better  pirate  ever  lived  than  Flint.  Smart  with 
his  cutlass.  Quick  at  the  trigger.  Grog!  A  sloppin' 
pail  o'  it  was  jest  a  sip. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


41 


DUKE:  I  used  ter  tell  him  that  his  leg  was  holler. 

PATCH:  He  was  a  vat,  was  Flint — jest  a  swishin' 
keg. 

DUKE:  Grog  jest  sizzled  and  disappeared,  like 
when  yer  drops  it  on  a  red-hot  sea-coal. 

PATCH  :  Fer  twenty  year  and  more  me  and  you  has 
seen  ol'  Flint  march  his  wictims  off  the  plank. 

DUKE:  "Step  lively!"  he  'd  say.  "Does  n't  yer 
hear  Davy  callin'  to  yer?"  There  was  never  a 
sailorman  ever  sat  in  the  Port  Light  at  Wappin' 
wharf  which  could  drink  with  Flint. 


"Port  Light"  at  Wappin'  Wharf 


WAPP1N'   WHARF 


PATCH:  Wappin'  wharf  and  gibbets  is  nothin'  ter 
talk  about.    Funerals  even  is  cheerfuller. 
DUKE:  There  's  his  parrot. 

PATCH:  She  used  ter  cuss  soft  and  gentle  to  her 
self — 'appy  all  the  day.     She  ain  't  spoke  since  Flint 
was  took.    Peckin'  at  yer  finger  and  broodin'. 
DUKE:  There  's  his  ol'  clock. 

PATCH:  As  hung  in  the  cabin  o'  the  Spittin'  Devil. 
DUKE:  With  the  pendulum  gettin'  tangled  in  a 
storm.  A  'ell  of  a  clock  fer  a 
bouncin'  ship. 

PATCH:  She  was  tickin'  peaceful 
the  day  Flint  was  hanged.  But  she 
stopped — does  yer 
remember  it? — the 
very  minute  they 
pushed  him  off  the 
ladder. 

DUKE:  She  ain't 
ticked  since. 

PATCH  :  It  makes 
yer  'stitious.    And 
she    won 't    never 
run   agin — that   's 
alers  said — till  his  death   's  re- 


"A  'ell  of  a  clock  fer  a  bouncin' 
ship" 


what  Flint 
venged. 

DUKE  :  He  told  us  never  ter  wind  her — says  she  'd 
start  hisself  without  no  windin'  when  the  right  time 
came. 

PATCH  :  If  I  was  ter  look  up  and  see  that  pendulum 


WAPPIN'  WHARF  43 

swingin' — Horrers!    Yeller  elephants  would  be  noth- 


m 


DUKE:  Pooh!  I  'd  give  a  month  o'  grog  jest  ter 
hear  the  ol'  dear  tickin',  and  ter  know  that  Flint 
was  restin'  easy  in  his  rotten  coffin — swappin' 
stories  with  the  pretty  angels. 

PATCH:  I  loved  Flint  like  a  brother.  (He  is  quite 
sentimental  about  this.)  It  was  him  knocked  this  out. 
(Pointing  to  his  missing  eye.)  But  it  was  jest  in  the 
way  o'  business.  We  differed  a  leetle  in  the  loot. 
He  was  very  persuasive,  was  ol'  Flint. 

DUKE:  Yer  talks  like  a  woman.  They  loves  yer  to 
cuff  'em.  Them  was  'appy  days,  Patch. 

PATCH:  Blast  me  gig  what  's  left,  Duke,  but  me 
and  you  has  seen  a  heap  o'  sights.  I  suppose  I  've 
drowned  meself  a  hundred  men.  It  's  comfertin' 
when  yer  lays  awake  at  night.  I  feels  I  ain  't  wasted 
meself.  I  've  used  me  gifts.  I  ain  't  been  a  foolish 
virgin  and  put  me  shinin'  talent  inside  a  bushel. 
But  me  and  you  is  driftwood  now,  Duke. 

DUKE:  Aye.  But  it  ain  't  no  use  snifflin'  about  it, 
ol'  crocodile.  Darlin'  is  certainly  handy  at  mixin' 
grog.  And  we  've  a  right  smart  cabin  with  winders 
on  the  sea.  Since  I  stuffed  yer  ol'  shirt  in  the  roof 
it  hardly  leaks. 

PATCH:  My  shirt!     Next  week  is   me  week  fer 
changin'.    How  could  yer  ha'  done  it?    I  'm  a  kinder 
perticerler  dresser.    I  likes  ter  wash  now  and  then— 
if  it  ain  't  too  often. 

DUKE:  Darlin',  me  friend  Patch  is  thirsty.     And 


44 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


a  drop  meself.     (T lie  cups  are  filled.}    Yer  a  precious 
ol'  lady,  and  I  loves  yer. 

DARLIN':  Yer  spoils  me,  Duke. 

(Lightning  and  a  crash  of  thunder.} 
DUKE:  It  's  foul  tonight  on  the  ocean.    How  the 
wind  blows!     It  be  spittin'  up  outside.     The  chan 
nel  's  as  riled  as  a  wampire  when  yer  scorns  her. 
How  she  snorts! 

PATCH:  The  devil  hisself  is  hissin*  through  his 
teeth. 

DUKE:  There  '11  be  sailormen  tonight  what  's 
booked  fer  Davy  Jones's  locker.  I  'm  not  kickin' 
much  ter  be  ashore.  I  rots  peaceful. 

(Patch-Eye  has  opened  the  door  to  consult  the  night. 
It  slams  wide  in  the  wind  and  the  gust  bloios  out  the 
candle.) 

DUKE:  Hi,  there,  for'ard!    Batten  yer  hatch!    Yer 

blowin'   the    gizzard 
out  o'  us. 

(He  hobbles  on  tim 
ber  leg  to  the 
warm  chair  by 
the  fire.  Patch 
closes  the  door 
and  sits.  Dar- 
lin'  relights  the 
candle.) 

PATCH:  Poor  Flint! 
He    was     took     on 

"Yer  blowin'  the  gizzard  out  o'  us"        jest     SUch     a     night. 


WAPPIN'  WHARF 


Dropped  inter  the  Port  Light  fer  somethin'  wet  and 
warmin'.  Jest  ter  kinder  say  goodby.  Ship  all 
fitted  out.  He  'd  got  three  new  sailormen  —  fine 
fellers  as  had  been  sentenced  ter  be  hanged  fer  cuttin' 
purses,  but  had  been  let  go,  as  they  had  reformed 
and  wanted  ter  be  honest  pirates. 

DUKE:  I  remembers  the  night,  ol'  sea-nymph.  It 
was  rainin'  ter  put  out  the  fires  o'  hell  —  with  the 
leetle  devils  stoakin'  in  the  sinners.  It  's  sinners, 
Patch,  as  is  used  fer  kindlers,  ter  keep  the  devils  in  a 
healthy  sweat. 

PATCH:  He  was  ter  sail  when  the  tide  ran  out. 
Lord  a  Goody  !  How  the  tide  runs  down  the  Thames, 
as  if  it  were  homesick  fer  the  ocean! 

DUKE:  But  someone  squealed. 

PATCH:  Squealers  is  worse  'n  hissin'  reptiles. 
They  ketched  Flint  and  they  strung  him  to  a  gibbet. 
Poor  ol'  dear!  I  never  touches  me  patch,  but  I 
thinks  o'  Flint. 

DUKE:  This  here  life  is  snug  and  easy.  We  has 
retired  from  practice,  like  store-keepers  does  who  has 
made  a  fortin.  Ain  't  we  settin'  here  in  style  and 
comfert,  and  jest  waitin'  fer  the  treasure  ships  ter 
come  ter  us?  We  gets  the  plums  without  chawin' 
at  the  dough.  We  blows  out  the  lighthouse,  and  we 
sets  our  lantern  so  as  ter  fool  'em  on  the  course,  and 
when  they  smashes  on  the  rocks,  well  —  all  we  does  is 
stuff  our  pokes  with  the  treasure  that  washes  up.  I 
prays  meself  fer  fog  and  dirty  weather.  Now  I  lay 
me,  says  I,  and  will  yer  send  it  thick  and  oozy? 


46  WAPPIN*   WHARF 

PATCH:  I  ain  't  disputin'  yer.  (He  cheers  up  a  bit.) 
And  we  robs  landlubbers  once  in  a  while. 

DUKE:  Now  yer  talkin',  oP  sea-lion.  I  'm  tellin' 
yer  it  were  a  good  haul  we  made  last  night  on  Castle 
Crag. 

PATCH:  Who  's  disputin'  yer? 

DUKE:  I  'm  tellin'  yer.  Silver  candles!  And 
spoons!  Never  seen  such  a  heap  o'  spoons. 

PATCH:  What  's  anyone  want  more  'n  one  spoon 
fer?  Yer  cleans  it  every  bite  agin  the  tongue. 

DUKE:  Yer  disgusts  me,  Patch.  Yer  ain 't  no 
manners.  Fer  meself  I  spears  me  food  tidy  on  me 
knife. 

(The  Duke  sits  looking  at  the  seaman1  s  chest  at  the 
rear  of  the  cabin.  He  is  deep  in  thought.) 

DUKE:  There  's  jest  one  leetle  thing  I  does  n't 
understand.  I  asks  yer.  (He  goes  to  the  chest,  opens 
it  and  drains  out  a  rich  velvet  garment.  He  holds  it  up.) 
What  's  the  meaning  o'  this  here  loot  we  took  at 
Castle  Crag?  I  asks  yer.  Ain  't  we  been  by  that 
castle  a  hundred  times?  The  Earl,  he  don  't  wear 
clothes  like  this.  None  o'  the  arstocky  does,  'cept 
when  they  struts  on  Piccadilly.  I  asks  yer,  Patch. 
I  asks  yer  who  wears  a  thing  like  that. 

(He  puts  the  garment   around  Patch's  shoulders.) 

DARLIN'  :  Yer  looks  like  the  Archbishop  o'  Canter 
bury. 

PATCH:  (with  strut  and  gesture).  His  Grice  takin' 
the  air — pluckin'  posies. 

DUKE:  Lookin*  like  a  silly  jackass. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


PATCH:  Yer  hurts  me  feelin's,  Duke. 

( The  Duke  folds  the  cloak  and  puts  it  back  again  in 
the  chest.  He  sits  at  the  table  in  meditation.} 

DUKE:  I  does  n't  like  it,  Patch.  I  does  n't  under 
stand  it.  And  what  I  does  n't  understand,  I  does  n't 
like. 

PATCH 


Who  owned   'em,   I 


What? 

DUKE:  Them   gay   clothes, 
asks  yer,  afore  we  stole  'em. 

PATCH:  Darlin'!  Me  friend,  the  Duke,  is  thirsty. 
Yer  had  better  mix  another  pot.  Our  cups  is  low. 
Yer  does  n't  want  ter  be  a  foolish  virgin  and  get 
ketched  without  no  grog. 

DUKE:  With  this  bit  o'  slop  what  's  left  I  drinks  to 
yer  shinin'  lamps — Wenus's  flashin'  gigs. 
DARLIN':  I  loves  yer,  Duke. 
(She  fills, 
mixes  and 
stirs  the  pot. 
She  tastes  it 
like  a  prac 
ticed  house 
wife.  Her 
apron  is 
maid  of  all 
work.  It  is 
towel,  dust- 
rag,  mop 
and  hand 
kerchief.} 


Her  apron  is  towel,  dust  rag,  mop  and  handker 
chief 


48  WAPP1N'   WHARF 

DUKE:  What  does  yer  make,  ol'  Cyclops,  o'  the 
new  recruit? 

PATCH:  Red  Joe? 

DUKE:  Him. 

PATCH  :  He  's  a  right  smart  pirate,  I  says.  I  never 
seen  a  feller  as  could  shoot  so  straight. 

DUKE:  I  says  so.  But  he  's  a  wee  bit  nobby — 
kinder  stiff  in  the  nose. 

PATCH  :  Looks  as  if  he  knowed  he  was  kinder  good. 

DUKE:  It  's  queer  how  he  come  ter  us.  Jest 
settin'  on  top  his  dory  on  the  beach,  when  we  found 
him.  And  what  he  said  about  his  ship  goin'  down! 
Blast  me  ol'  stump,  but  it  were  queer. 

PATCH.  Queer? 

DUKE:  Yer  said  it,  Patch.  Queerer  than  mer 
maids.  Did  we  ever  see  a  stick  o'  that  ship?  I  'm 
askin'  yer,  Patch. 

PATCH  :  Ain  't  I  listenin'  ? 

DUKE:  Ain  't  I  tellin'  yer?  Nary  a  bit  washed  in. 
Did  yer  ever  know  a  wreck  'long  here  where  nothin' 
washed  in — jest  nothin'?  I  'm  askin'  yer. 

PATCH:  You  and  me  would  starve  if  it  happened 
regular. 

DUKE  :  It 's  what  we  lives  by — pickin's  on  the  beach. 

PATCH:  He  's  a  right  smart  pirate,  's  Red  Joe. 
The  Captain — the  most  'ticerler  man  I  know — he 
took  ter  him  at  once.  He  's  a  kinder  good-lookin' 
feller. 

DARLIN':  (stirring  at  the  pot).  He  ain  't  got  whis 
kers  like  the  Duke. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


(She  spits — must  I  say  it? — she  spits  into  the 
fire.) 

DUKE:  Queer  that  never  a  stick  washed  in. 

PATCH:  I  'm  not  denyin'  yer,  Duke.  Where  's 
Red  Joe  now?  It  's  gettin'  on.  I  '11  jest  take  a  look 
fer  him.  (He  takes  the  lantern  from  its  hook  and 
stands  at  the  open  door.)  It  ain  't  blowin'  so  hard.  OF 
Borealis — I  speaks  poetical — ain  't  strainin'  at  his 
waistcoat  buttons  like  he  was. 

DUKE:  Igerence!  I  pities  yer.  Borealis  ain  't 
wind.  He  's  rainbows. 

(Patch-Eye  goes  into  the  night.  The  Duke  sits  to 
a  greasy  game  of  solitaire.) 

DUKE:  It  's  queer,  I  says.  Nary  a  stick!  Jest 
Red  Joe  on  top  his  dory !  (He  sings  abstractedly.) 


50 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


Bill  Bones  used  ter  say,  on  many  a  day, 
When  takin'  a  ship  fer  its  loot, 
That  a  blow  on  the  head  was  quickest  dead 
And  safest  and  best  ter  boot. 
But  a  wictim's  end,  fer  meself  I  contend- 
There  's  a  hundred  been  killed  by  me— 
Is  a  walk,  I  '11  be  frank,  on  a  slippery  plank, 
And  a  splash  in  the  roarin'  sea. 

(He  turns  and  surveys  the  drawing  above  the  win 
dows.  He  cocks  his  head  like  a  connoisseur, 
critically — with  approval.} 

DUKE:  I  'm  the  artist  o'  that  there  masterpiece. 
The  Spittin'  Devil!  I  done  it  on  a  rainy  mornin'. 
Genius  is  queer.  (Then  he  sings  again.} 

Ol'  Pew  had  a  jerk  with  a  long-handled  dirk — 
His  choice  was  a  jab  in  the  dark— 

(He  is  engaged  thus,  fumbling  with  his  cards,  when 
Darlin,  crossing  from  the  fire,  interrupts  him.} 

DARLIN':  Duke,  will  yer 
have   a   nip    o'    grog?     It 
eases     yer      pipes.       Yer 
sounds     as     if     yer     had 
crumbs  in  yer  gullet. 
(The   Duke   pushes    for 
ward  his  cup.} 
DUKE:     It    's    a    lovely 
tune,    and    I    wrote    the 
words    meself.     (He    con- 

' It  eases  yer  pipes"  tinues  his  SOng.} 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  51 

Old  Pew  had  a  jerk  with  a  long-handled  dirk— 

His  choice  was  a  jab  in  the  dark— 

And  Morgan's  crew,  'twixt  me  and  you, 

Considered  a  rope  a  lark. 

But  a  prettier  end,  I  repeat  and  contend — 

And  I  Ve  sailed  on  every  sea — 

Is  a  plunge  off  the  side  in  the  foamin'  tide. 

It  tickles  a  sailor  like  me. 

DARLIN':  Duke,  does  yer  happen  ter  have  a  wife? 
DUKE:  (deeply  engaged}.    Some  tunes  is  hard,  so  I 
jest  makes  'em  up  as  I  goes  along. 

Blackbeard  had  a  knife  which  he  stuck  in  his  wife. 
Fer  naggin',  says  he  ter  me — 

DARLIN':  Has  yer  a  wife?  A  wife  as  might  turn 
up,  I  mean. 

DUKE:  Say  it  agin,  Darlin'. 

DARLIN':  Most  sailors  has  wives  o'  course,  strewed 
here  and  there  from  Bristol  to  Guinea — jest  ter  make 
all  ports  cozy.  So  's  yer  goin'  home  ter  a  'appy 
family,  no  matter  where  yer  steers. 

DUKE:  It  's  comfertable,  Darlin' —  I  '11  not  deny 
it — when  yer  heads  ter  harbor  to  see  a  winkin' 
candle  in  a  winder  on  a  hill,  and  know  that  a  faithful 
wife  and  a  couple  o'  leetle  pirates  is  waitin'  ter  hug 
yer. 

DARLIN':  I  says  so,  Duke.  I  Ve  been  a  wife  me- 
self  on  and  off,  with  husbands  sailin'  in  and  out— 
kissin'  yer  and  'oistin'  sail.  Roundabout,  I  says, 


52  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

makes  'appy  marriages.     Has  yer  a  wife,  Duke— 
livin',  as  yer  can  remember? 

DUKE:  Yer  a  bold,  for'ard  creature.  Are  yer 
proposin'  ter  me? 

(Something  like  a  wink  shows  in  the  bush.) 

DARLIN'  :  I  blush  fer  yer  bad  manners,  Duke.  I  'm 
a  lady  and  I  waits  patient  fer  the  'appy  question. 
I  lets  me  beauty  do  the  pleadin'.  I  was  a  flamin' 
roarer  in  me  time.  Lovers  was  nothin'.  Dozens! 
There  was  a  sea-captain  once — (She  smiles  dreamily, 
tfien  seems  to  cut  her  throat  with  her  little  finger.) 
Positive!  Jest  'cause  we  tiffed.  And  a  stage-coach 
driver!  I  had  ter  cool  his  passion  with  a  rollin'  pin. 
He  brooded  hisself  inter  drink.  'Appy  days !  (She  is 
lost  for  a  moment  in  her  glorious  past,  then  blows  her 
nose  upon  her  apron  and  returns  to  us.)  Duke — 
askin'  yer  pardon — I  was  noticin'  lately  that  you 
was  castin'  yer  eyes  on  leetle  Betsy. 

DUKE:  As  washes  the  dishes? 

DARLIN':  Her. 

DUKE:  Go  'long! 

DARLIN':  And  I  thought  yer  might  be  drawn  to 
her. 

DUKE:  Darlin',  I  'm  easy  riled. 

DARLIN':  Yer  can  have  her,  Duke,  on  one  condi 
tion. 

DUKE:  She  's  a  pretty  leetle  girl. 

DARLIN'  :  Yer  must  set  me  up  in  a  pub  in  Bristol— 
with  brass  beer-pulls. 

DUKE:  I  '11  not  deny  I  Ve  given  her  a  thought. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  53 

Usual,  wives  is  nuisances — naggin'  at  yer  fer  six 
pences.  But  sometimes  I  does  get  lonesome  on  a 
wet  night  when  there  are  nothin'  ter  do.  I  need 
someone  ter  hand  me  down  me  boots.  Betsy  'd 
make  a  kinder  cozy  wife.  Could  yer  learn  her  ter 
make  grog? 

DARLIN':  Aye. 

DUKE:  I  might  do  worse.  And  roast  pig  that 
crackles? 

DARLIN'  :  I  could  learn  her. 

DUKE:  I  might  do  worser.  I  'd  marry  you, 
Darlin'- 

DARLIN':  Dearie! 

DUKE:  But  yer  gettin'  on.  Patch  might  marry 
yer.  He  's  only  got  one  eye. 

DARLIN':  (with  scorn).    Patch! 

DUKE:  I  '11  not  deny  I  Ve  been  considerin'  leetle 
Betsy.  I  was  thinkin'  about  it  this  mornin'  as  I  was 
cleanin'  me  boot.  Wives  cleans  boots.  I  'm  the 
sort  o'  sailorman  she  would  be  sure  ter  like. 

DARLIN':  And  what  about  the  pub? 

DUKE:  Blast  me  stump,  Darlin',  I  '11  not  ferget 
yer. 

DARLIN':  Does  I  get  brass  beer -pulls  in  the  tap? 

DUKE:  Everythin'  shiny. 

DARLIN':  I  'm  lovin'  yer. 

DUKE:  Betsy  would  kinder  jump  at  me.  There  's 
somethin'  tender  about  a  young  girl's  first  love— 
cooin'  in  yer  arms. 

DARLIN':  Easy,  Duke! 


64  WAPPIW   WHARF 

DUKE:  I  alers  was  a  fav'rite  with  the  ladies.  I 
think  it  's  me  whiskers. 

DARLIN':  'Vast  there,   Duke!     There  's  a   shoal 
ahead.    Red  Joe  's  a  right  smart  feller. 
DUKE:  Red  Joe? 

DARLIN'  :  Him.    He  sets  and  watches  her. 
DUKE:  What  can  she  see  in  a  young  feller  like 
that? 

DARLIN'  :  Women  's  queer  folks.  They  're  wicious 
wampires.  Jest  yer  watch  'em  together.  Red  Joe  's 
snoopin'  in  on  yer. 

DUKE:  Yer  can  blast  me.  He  ain  't  got  whiskers. 
DARLIN'  :  I  'm  tellin'  yer,  Duke.  If  I  was  you  I  'd 
tumble  that  Red  Joe  off  a  cliff.  I  'm  hintin'  to  yer, 
Duke.  Off  a  cliff!  (She  sniffs  audibly.)  It  's  the 
pig.  I  clean  fergot  the  pig.  It  's  burnin'  on  the 
fire.  Off  a  cliff!  I  'm  hintin'  to  yer. 

(She  runs  to  the  kitchen.) 

DUKE:  Red  Joe!  Women  's  queer — queerer  than 
mermaids.  A  snooper!  Jest  a  'prentice  pirate!  No 
whiskers !  Nothin' ! 

(At  this  moment  there  is  a  stamping  of  feet  outside 

and  Patch-Eye  enters  with  Red  Joe. 
If  Red  Joe  were  born  a  gentleman  we  might  expect 
silver  buckles  and  a  yellow  feather  to  trail  across  his 
shoulder,  for  he  bears  a  jaunty  dignity.  His  is  a 
careless  grace — the  swagger  of  a  pleasant  vaga 
bond — a  bravado  that  snaps  its  fingers  at  danger. 
His  body  has  the  quickness  of  a  cat,  his  eye  a  flash 
of  humor — kindly,  unless  necessity  sharpens  it. 


WAPP1W   WHARF  55 

As  poets  were  thick  in  those  golden  days  we  suspect 
that  the  roar  of  the  ocean  sets  rhymes  jingling  in  his 
heart.  He  is,  however,  almost  as  shabby  as  tfie 
other  pirates,  although  he  wears  no  pigtail.  His 
collar  is  turned  up.  He  wrings  the  water  from  his 
hat. 

Patch-Eye  throws  himself  on  tlie  seaman  s  chest  and 
falls  asleep  at  once.    He  snores  an  obligato  to  our 
scene.     Just  once  an  ugly  dream  disturbs  him 
and  we  must  fancy  that  a  gibbet  has  crossed  tJie 
frightful  shadow  of  his  thoughts.} 
DUKE:  Evenin',  ol'  sea-serpent!     Where  has  you 
been? 

JOE:  Up  at  the  lighthouse.    It  's  as  mirky  as  hell's 
back  door. 

DUKE:  See  Petey? 

JOE:  I  did.     He  was  puttering  with  his  light  and 
meowing  to  his  tabby  cat. 

DUKE:  We  're  a  blessin'  ter  ol'  Petey.  I  'm  bettin' 
me  stump  he  'd  get  lonesome  up  there  'cept  fer  us. 
(He  points  to  the  window  to  the  rigM,  where  the  light 
house  shows.}  There  's  ol'  Petey,  starin'  at  the 
ocean.  Yer  ain  't  never  seen  a  light  at  that  t'  other 
winder,  has  yer  Joe?  We  waits  fer  a  merchantman 
which  he  knows  has  gold  aboard.  Then  we  jest  tips  a 
hint  ter  Petey,  and  he  douses  his  light.  Then  we 
sets  up  our  lantern — ol'  Flint's  lantern— outside  on 
the  rocks,  jest  where  she  shows  at  t'  other  winder. 
The  ship  sticks  her  nose  agin  the  cliff.  Smash ! 
(At  this  point,  after  a  few  moments  of  convulsion, 


56 


WAPP1N'   WHARF 


Patch-Eye  falls  off  the  chest, 
his  eyes.) 
PATCH : 


He  sits  up  and  rubs 


I  dreamed  o'  gibbets! 
DUKE:  Yer  is  lucky,  ol'  keg  o'  rum,  yer  does  n't 
dream  o'   purple    rhinoceroses.      Go  back  ter   bed. 


(Then  to  Joe.)     Smash!     I 


"And  we  jest  as  innercent  as  babies 
in  a  crib" 


says.  On  comes  Petey 
agin.  And  we  jest  as 
innercent  as  babies  in 
a  crib.  It  was  me  own 
idear.  Brains,  young 
feller.  Jest  yer  wait, 
Joey,  till  yer  sees  a 
light  at  t'  other  win 
der. 

(Betsy  is  heard  sing 
ing  in  the  kitchen. 
The  Duke  stops 
and  listens.  A 
dark  thought  runs 
His  shrewd  eye  quests  from 


through  his  head, 
kitchen  door  to  Joe.) 

DUKE:  Darlin'!    Darlin'!    (She  thrusts  in  her  head.) 

DUKE:  Where  's  Betsy? 

DARLIN'  :  She  's  washin'  dishes. 

DUKE:  I  'm  wonderin'  if  she  would  lay  off  a  bit 
from  her  jolly  occerpation,  and  sing  us  a  leetle  song. 

DARLIN'  :  (calling) .    Betsy !    I  wants  yer. 

PATCH  :  I  never  knowed  yer  cared  fer  music,  Duke. 
Usually  yer  goes  outside.    Yer  jest  boohs. 

DUKE:  I  does  usual,  Patch.    Tonight 's  perticerler. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


57 


Red  Joe  ain  't  never  heard  Betsy  sing.    Does  yer  like 
music,  Joe? 

JOE  :  I  like  the  roaring  of  the  ocean.    I  like  to  hear 
the  trees  tossing  in  the  wind. 

PATCH:  Wind  ain  't  music.  Yer  should  hear 
Betsy.  She  's  got  a  leetle  song  that  makes  yer  feel  as 
good  and  peaceful 
as  a  whinin'  par 
son. 

DARLIN'  :  (beck 
oning  at  the  kitchen 
door) .  Betsy! 
Stop  sloppin'  with 
the  dishes! 

Betsy    enters. 

She  is  a  pretty 

girl.        Our 

guess    at    her 

age  is — but  it 

is  better  not  to 


gue  s  s. 
have     in 


We 

our 


own  expen- 
( nee  made  sev 
eral  humiliat 
ing  blunders. 
Let  us  say  that 
Betsy  is  young 
enough  to  be  a 
crand-daugh- 


Betsy  enters 


58 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


ter.  Plainly  she  is  a  pirate  by  accident,  not  in 
heritance,  for  she  is  clean  and  she  wears  a  pretty 
dress.) 

DUKE:  (as  fie  rises  and  makes  a  sfww  of  manners). 

Betsy,  yer  is  welcome  ter  the  parlor.     We  wants 

Red  Joe  ter  hear  yer  sing.    That  leetle  song  o'  yers. 

(He  returns  to  the  recess  at  the  rear  of  the  cabin  and 

covertly  watches  Joe.    Patch-Eye  is  lost  in  heavenly 

meditation.     Joe's  attention  is  roused  before  the 

first  stanza  of  the  song  is  finished.     By  the  third 

stanza  Betsy  sings  to  him  alone.) 


J^ullaby 


BETSY:  (sings). 

The  north  wind's  cheeks  are  puffed  with  tunes: 
It  whistles  across  the  sky. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  59 

It's  song  is  shrill  and  rough,  until 

The  hour  of  twilight  's  nigh. 

Rest,  my  dear  one,  rest  and  dream. 

The  winds  on  tip-toe  keep. 

In  the  dusk  of  day  they  hum  their  lay, 

And  weary  children  sleep. 

The  waves  since  dawn  roared  on  the  rocks: 

They  snarled  at  the  ships  on  the  deep. 

But  at  twilight  hour  they  chain  their  power 

And  little  children  sleep. 

Rest,  my  dear  one,  rest  and  dream. 

The  ships  in  a  cradle  swing, 

And  sailormen  blink  and  children  sink 

To  sleep,  as  the  wavelets  sing. 

The  sun  at  noon  was  red  and  hot: 

It  stifled  the  east  and  west. 

But  at  even  song  the  shadows  long 

Have  summoned  the  world  to  rest. 

Rest,  my  dear  one,  rest  and  dream. 

The  sun  runs  off  from  the  sky. 

But  the  stars,  it  's  odd,  while  children  nod, 

Are  tuned  to  a  lullaby. 

(She  sings  slowly,  to  a  measure  that  might  rock  a 
cradle.  This  can  be  managed,  for  I  have  tried  it 
with  a  chair.  Once,  Patch-Eye  blows  his  nose  to 
keep  his  emotions  from  exposure.  But  make  him 
blow  softly — soto  naso,  shall  we  say? — so  as  not  to 
disturb  the  song.  In  Red  Joe  the  song  seems  to 


60  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

have  stirred  a  memory.    At  the  end  of  each  stanza 
Betsy  pauses,  as  if  she,  too,  dwelt  in  the  past.) 
PATCH  :  When  I  hears  that  song  I  feels  as  if  I  were 
rockin'  babies  in  a  crib — blessed  leetle  pirates,  pullin' 
at  their  bottles,  as  will  f oiler  the  sea  some  day. 

(He  blows  his  sentimental  nose.    A  slighter  structure 

would  burst  in  the  explosion.} 

DUKE:  Yer  ol'  nose  sounds  as  if  it  were  tootin'  fer  a 
fog.  Yer  might  be  roundin'  the  Isle  o'  Dogs  on  a 
mirky  night. 

(He  goes  to  the  door  and  stretches  out  his  hand  for 

raindrops.) 

DUKE:  Joe,  you  and  me  has  got  ter  put  ile  in  the 
lantern.  Come  on,  ol'  sweetheart.  When  yer  sees 
this  lantern  blinkin'  at  that  there  winder,  yer  will 
know  that  willainy  's  afoot. 

(He  comes  close  to  Darlin'  and  whispers.) 

DUKE:  Yer  said  it,  Darlin'.     Yer  said  it.     Red 

Joe 's  castin' his  eye  on  Betsy.    Off  a  cliff!    Tonight! 

Now!     If  I  gets  a  chance.     Off  a  cliff!     Come  on, 

Joey! 

(He  goes  outdoors  with  Red  Joe,  singing  Betsy's 
song.     The  lullaby  fades  in  the  distance.     Patch- 
Eye  and  Betsy  are  left  together,  for  the  roast  pig 
again  calls  Darlin'  to  the  kitchen.) 
PATCH:  Will  yer  wait  a  bit,   Betsy — askin'   yer 
pardon — while  I  talks  to  yer? 
BETSY:  Of  course,  Patch. 

PATCH  :  I  don  't  suppose,  dearie,  I  'm  the  kind  o' 
pirate  as  sets  yer  thinkin'  of  fiddles  tunin'  up,  ner 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


parsons.  No,  yer  says.  Ner  cradles  and  leetle  devils 
bitin'  at  their  coral.  And  I  don  't  suppose  yer  has  a 
kind  o'  hankerin'  and  yearnin'.  Yer  never  sets  and 
listens  to  me  comin'.  Course  not,  yer  says.  Betsy, 
if  I  talk  out  square  you  '11  not  blab  it  all  'round  the 
village,  will  yer?  They  would  point  their  fingers  at 
me,  and  giggle  in  their  sleeves.  I  want  ter  tell  yer 
somethin'  o'  a  wery  tender  nater.  There  's  a  leetle 
word  as  begins  with  L.  L,  I  mean,  not  'ell.  I  would  n't 
want  yer  to  think,  Betsy,  I  'm  cussin'.  'Ell  is 
cussin'.  That  leetle  word  is  what  's  ailing  me.  It  's 
love,  Betsy.  It  's  me  heart.  Smashed  all  ter  bits! 
Jesus,  yer  asks,  what  done  it?  It  's  a  pretty  girl,  I 
answers  yer,  as  has  smashed  it.  Does  yer  foller, 
Betsy?  A  pretty  girl  about  your  size,  and  with  eyes 
the  color  o'  yourn.  What  does  yer  say,  Betsy?  Yer 
says  nothin'. 

BETSY:  I  never  meant  to,  Patch.    I  'm  sorry. 

PATCH  :  Course  you  are.  Jest  as  sorry  as  the  care 
less  feller  as  nudged  Humpty  Dumpty  off  the  wall. 
But  it  did  n't  do  no  good.  There  he  was,  broke  all  ter 
flinders.  And  all  the  King's  horses  and  all  the  King's 
men  could  n't  fix  him.  Humpty  Dumpty  is  me, 
Betsy.  Regularly  all  split  up,  fore  and  aft,  rib  and 
keel.  I  mopes  all  day  fer  you,  Betsy.  And  I  mopes 
all  night.  Last  night  I  did  n't  get  ter  sleep,  jest 
fidgettin',  till  way  past  'leven  o'  clock.  And  I  woke 
agin  at  seven,  askin'  meself,  if  I  loves  you  hopeless. 
Yer  is  a  lump  o'  sugar,  Betsy,  as  would  sweeten  oF 
Patch's  life.  If  we  was  married  I  'd  jest  tag  'round 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


behind  yer  and  hand  yer  things     And  now  yer  tells 
me  there  ain  't  no  hope  at  all. 

BETSY:  No  hope  at  all,  Patch. 

PATCH:  Yesterday  I  was  countin'  the  potaters  in 
the  pot,  sayin'  ter  meself :  She  loves  me — She  don  't 
love  me.  But  the  last  potater  did  n't  love  me,  Betsy. 
There  was  jest  one  too  many  potaters  in  the  pot. 
No,  yer  says,  yer  could  n't  love  me.  Cause  why? 
Cause  Patch  is  a  shabby  pirate  with  only  one  eye. 

BETSY:  I  am  sorry,  Patch. 

(She  offers  him  her  hand.) 

PATCH:  Blessed  leetle  fingers,  as  twines  their 
selves  all  'round  me  heart.  Patch,  yer  says,  yer 
sorry.  There  ain  ?t  no  hope  at  all.  Yer  nudges  him 
off  the  wall,  but  yer  can  't  fix  him.  But  I  never 
heard  that  Humpty  Dumpty  did  a  lot  o'  squealin' 
when  he  bust.  He  took  it  like  a  pirate.  And  so 
does  Patch.  I  does  n't  sulk.  If  yer  will  pardon  me, 
Betsy,  I  '11  leave  yer.  Me  feelin  's  get  lumpy  in  me 
throat.  I  '11  take  a  wink  o'  sleep  in  the  loft. 

(He  climbs  the  ladder,  but  turns  at  the  top.) 

PATCH:  There  was  jest  one  too  many  potaters  in 
the  pot. 

(He  disappears  through  the  hole  in  the  wall.  Betsy 
arranges  the  mugs  on  the  table,  then  stands  listening. 
Presently  there  is  a  sound  of  footsteps.  Red  Joe 
enters  at  the  rear.) 

JOE  :  I  slipped  the  Duke  in  the  dark.  I  came  back 
to  talk  with  you.  (Then  bluntly,  but  with  kindness.) 
How  old  are  you,  my  dear? 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


63 


BETSY:  I  don  't  know. 

JOE:  You  don  't  know?  How  long -have  you  lived 
here? 

BETSY:  In  this  cabin?    Three  years. 

JOE:  And  where  did  you  live  before? 

BETSY:  In  the  village — in  Clovelly. 

JOE:  Did  your  parents  live  there? 

BETSY:  Y-e-s.  I  think  so.  I  don  't  know.  Old 
Nancy,  they  called  her — she  brought  me  up.  But 
she  died  three  years 
ago. 

JOE:    Who    was    old 
Nancy? 

BETSY:  She  did  wash 
ing  for  the  sailormen. 

JOE:   Was   she  good 
to  you? 

BETSY:   Oh    yes.     I    <<shedid  Washin8for  thesailormen>> 

think — I  do  not  know — that  she  was  not  my  mother. 

JOE:  And  Darlin'? 

BETSY:  Yes.  She  has  been  good  to  me.  And  the 
others,  too.  I  seem  to  remember  someone  else.  How 
long  have  you  been  a  pirate? 

JOE:  A  pirate?  Years,  it  seems,  my  dear.  But  I 
am  more  used  to  a  soldier's  oaths.  I  have  trailed  a 
pike  in  the  Lowland  wars.  The  roar  of  cannon,  and 
seige  and  falling  walls,  are  gayer  tunes  than  any 
ocean  tempest.  What  is  this  that  you  remember, 
Betsy? 

BETSY:  It  is  far  off.     Some  one  sang  to  me.     It 


64  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

was  not  Nancy.  When  Nancy  died,  Darlin'  took  me 
and  brought  me  up.  That  was  three  years  ago.  But 
last  year  the  Captain  and  Duke  and  Patch-Eye  came 
climbing  up  the  rocks.  They  were  sailormen,  they 
said,  who  had  lost  a  ship.  And  these  cliffs  with  the 
sea  pounding  on  the  shore  comforted  them  when  they 
were  lonely.  So  they  stayed.  And  Darlin'  and  I 
cook  for  them. 

JOE:  Do  you  remember  who  it  was  who  sang  to 
you? 

BETSY:  No. 

JOE:  That  song  you  just  sang — where  did  you 
learn  it? 

BETSY:  I  have  always  known  it.  It  makes  me  sad 
to  sing  it,  for  it  sets  me  thinking — thinking  of  some 
thing  that  I  have  forgotten.  (She  stands  at  the  win 
dow  above  the  sea.)  Some  days  I  climb  high  on  the 
cliffs  and  I  look  upon  the  ocean.  And  I  know  that 
there  is  land  beyond — where  children  play — but  I 
see  nothing  but  a  rim  of  water.  And  sometimes  the 
wind  comes  off  the  sea,  and  it  brings  me  familiar 
far-off  voices — voices  I  once  knew — voices  I  once 
knew — fragments  from  a  life  I  have  forgotten.  Why 
do  you  ask  about  my  song? 

JOE:  Because  I  heard  it  once  myself. 

(Betsy  sits  beside  him  at  the  table.) 

BETSY:  Where?  Perhaps,  if  you  will  tell  me,  it 
will  help  me  to  remember. 

JOE:  I  heard  the  song  once  when  I  was  a  lad — 
when  I  was  taken  on  a  visit. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  65 

BETSY:  Were  your  parents  pirates? 

JOE:  It  was  a  long  journey  and  all  day  we  bumped 
upon  the  road,  seeking  an  outlet  from  the  tangled 
hills.  Night  overtook  our  weary  horses  and  blew  out 
the  flaming  candles  in  the  west;  and  shadows  were  a 
blanket  on  the  sleeping  world.  Toward  midnight 
I  was  roused.  We  had  come  to  the  courtyard 
of  a  house — this  house  where  I  was  taken  on  a 
visit. 

BETSY:  Was  it  like  this,  Joe — a  cabin  on  a  cliff? 

JOE  :  I  remember  how  the  moon  peeped  around  the 
corner  to  see  who  came  so  late  knocking  on  the  door. 
I  remember — I  remember — (He  stops  abruptly}.  Do 
you  remember  when  you  first  came  to  live  with 
Nancy? 

BETSY:  I  dreamed  once — you  will  think  me  silly- 
Are  there  great  stone  steps  somewhere,  wider  than 
this  room,  with  marble  women  standing  motionless? 
And  walls  with  dizzy  towers  upon  them? 

JOE:  Go  on,  Betsy. 

BETSY:  In  Clovelly  there  are  naught  but  cabins 
pitched  upon  a  hill,  and  ladders  to  a  loft.  And,  at 
the  foot  of  the  town,  a  mole,  where  boats  put  in. 
And  I  have  listened  to  the  songs  of  the  fishermen  as 
they  wind  their  nets.  And  through  the  window  of 
the  tavern  I  have  heard  them  singing  at  their  rum. 
And  sometimes  I  have  been  afraid.  I  have  stuffed 
my  ears  and  ran.  But  the  ugly  songs  have  followed 
me  and  scared  me  in  the  night.  The  shadows  from 
the  moon  have  reeled  across  the  floor,  like  a  tipsy 


66  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

sailor  from  the  Harbor  Light.  Joe,  are  you  really  a 
man  from  the  sea? 

JOE:  Why,  Betsy? 

BETSY:  The  sea  is  never  gentle.  It  never  sleeps. 
I  have  stood  listening  at  the  window  on  breathless 
nights,  but  the  ocean  always  slaps  against  the  rocks. 
Even  in  a  calm  it  moves  and  frets.  Is  it  not  said  that 
the  ghosts  of  evil  men  walk  back  and  forth  on  the 
spot  where  their  crimes  are  done?  The  ocean,  per 
haps,  for  its  cruel  wreckage,  haunts  these  cliffs.  It  is 
doomed  through  all  eternity  with  a  lather  of  break 
ing  waves  to  wash  these  rocks  of  blood.  And  the 
wind  whistles  to  bury  the  cries  of  drowning  men  that 
plague  the  memory.  Joe — 

JOE:  Yes,  my  dear. 

BETSY:  You  are  the  only  one — Patch-Eye,  Duke 
and  the  Captain — you  are  the  only  one  who  is  always 
gentle.  And  I  have  wondered  if  you  could  really  be  a 
pirate. 

JOE:  Me?  (Then  with  sudden  change.)  Me? 
Gentle?  The  devil  himself  is  my  softer  twin. 

BETSY:  Don't!    Don't! 

JOE:  What  do  you  know  of  scuttled  ships,  and 
rascals  ripped  in  fight?  Of  the  last  bubbles  that 
grin  upon  the  surface  where  a  dozen  men  have 
drowned? 

BETSY:  Joe!    For  God's  sake!    Don  't! 

JOE:  Is  it  gentleness  to  plunge  a  dagger  in  a  man 
and  watch  for  his  dying  eye  to  glaze? 

BETSY:  It  is  a  lie.    Tell  me  it  is  a  lie! 


WAPPIW   WHARF  67 

JOE:  My  dear.     (Gently  he  touches  her  hand.) 

BETSY:  It  is  a  lie. 

JOE:  We  '11  pretend  it  is  a  lie. 

(They  sit  for  a  moment  without  speaking.) 

BETSY:  How  long,  Joe,  have  you  lived  with 
us? 

JOE:  Two  weeks,  Betsy. 

BETSY:  Two    weeks?      So    short    a   time.      From 
Monday  to  Monday  and  then  around  again  to  Mon 
day.     It  is  so  brief  a  space  that 
a    flower    would    scarcely   droop 
and   wither.     And   yet   the   day 
you    came    seems    already    long 
ago.      And    all   the   days   before 
are   of   a   different  life.     It  was  •"coj^ 

another  Betsy,  not  myself,  who  "^Monday to Mon- 

day,  and  then  around 

lived  in  this  cabin  on  a  Sunday      again  to  Monday" 
before  a  Monday. 

JOE:  It  is  so  always,  Betsy,  when  friends  suddenly 
come  to  know  each  other.  All  other  days  sink  to 
unreality  like  the  memory  of  snow  upon  a  day  of 
August.  We  wonder  how  the  flowering  meadows 
were  once  a  field  of  white.  Our  past  selves,  Betsy, 
walk  apart  from  us  and,  although  we  know  their 
trick  of  attitude  and  the  fashion  of  their  clothes,  they 
are  not  ourselves.  For  friendship,  when  it  grips  the 
heart,  rewinds  the  fibres  of  our  being.  Do  you 
remember,  dear,  how  you  ran  in  fright  when  you 
first  saw  me  clambering  up  these  rocks? 

BETSY:  I  was  sent  to  call  the  Duke  to  dinner  and 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


carried  a  bell  to  ring  it  on  the  cliff.     I  was  afraid 
when  a  stranger's  head  appeared  upon  the  path. 
JOE  :  Yet,  when  I  spoke,  you  stopped. 
BETSY:  At  the  first  word  I  knew  I  need  n't  be 
afraid.     And  you  took  my  hand  to  help  me  up  the 
slope.    You  asked  my  name,  and  told  me  yours  was 
Joe.     Then  we  came  together  to  this  cabin.     And 
each  day  I  have  been  with  you.     Two  weeks  only. 
JOE:  I  shall  be  gone,  Betsy,  in  a  little  while. 
BETSY:  Gone? 

JOE:  I  am  not,  my  dear,  the  master  of  myself. 
We  must  forget  these  days  together. 
BETSY:  Joe! 

JOE:  May  be  I  shall  return.  Fate  is  captain.  The 
future  shows  so  vaguely  in  the  mist.  Listen!  It  is 
the  Duke. 

(In   the  distance   the   Duke   is   heard   singing   the 

pirates'  song.} 

JOE:  We  must  speak  of  these  things  together. 
Another  time  when  there  is  no  interruption. 

(Gently  she  touches  his  fingers.) 
BETSY:  I  shall  be  lonely  when  you  go. 
(There  is  loud  stamping  at  the  door.     Betsy  goes 

quickly  to  the  kitchen. 

The  Captain  enters,  followed  by  the  Duke.  Patch- 
Eye  enters  by  way  of  the  ladder.  The  Captain  has  a 
hook  hand.  This  is  the  very  hook  mentioned  in 
my  preface  —  if  you  read  prefaces  —  got  from  the 
corner  butcher.  The  Captain  would  be  a  frightful 
man  to  meet  socially.  I  can  hear  a  host  saying 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


69 


"Shake  hands  with  the  Captain."  One  quite 
loses  his  taste  for  dinner  parties.  There  is  a  sabre 
cut  across  the  Cap 
tain  s  cheek.  He 
is  even  more 
reputable  in 


The    Captain    would    be    a   frightful 
man  to  meet  socially 


dis 
ap 
pearance  than  his 
followers,,  with  a 
bluster  that  marks 
his  rank.} 

CAPTAIN  :    There    's 
news!     There  's  news, 
me  men!     I  've  brought  big  news  from  the  village. 
(lie  wrings  the  water  from  his  hat.     He  is  provok- 
ingly  deliberate.     All  of  the  pirates  crowd  around.} 
CAPTAIN:  By  the  bones  of  me  ten  fingers,  it  's  a 
blythe  night  fer  our  business.     It  's  wetter  than  a 
crocodile's  nest.     When  I  smells  a  fog,  I  feels  good. 
I  tastes  it  and  is  'appy. 

PATCH:  What  's  yer  news,  Captain? 
CAPTAIN:  News?     Oh  yes,  the  news.     I  Ve  jest 
hearn — I  've  jest  hearn — blast  me  rotten  timbers! 
How  can  a  man  talk  when  he  's  dry!    A  cup  o'  grog! 
(Darlin  has  slipped  into  the  room  in  the  excitement. 
Old  custom  anticipates  his  desire.     She  stands  at 
his  elbow  with  the  cup,  like  a  dirty  Ganymede. 
The  Captain  drinks  slowly.) 
CAPTAIN:  There  's  big  news,  me  hearties. 
DUKE:  What  's  yer  news,  Captain?    We  asks  yer. 
CAPTAIN:  I  'm  telling*  yer.     It  's  sweatin'  with 


70  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

curiosity  that  kills  cats.  (He  yawns  and  stretches 
his  legs  across  the  hob.}  Down  in  the  village  I  learnt — 
I  was  jest  takin'  a  drop  o'  rum  at  the  Harbor  Light. 
It  's  not  as  sweet  as  Darlin's.  They  skimps  their 
sugar.  Yer  wants  ter  keep  droppin'  it  in  as  yer 
stirs  it.  I  thinks  they  puts  in  too  much  water. 
Water  's  not  much  good — 'cept  fer  washin'.  And 
washin'  's  not  much  good. 

DUKE:  Now  then,  Captain,  hold  hard  on  yer 
tiller  agin  wobblin',  and  get  ter  port. 

DARLIN'  :  We  're  hangin'  on  yer  lips. 

CAPTAIN:  Yer  need  n't  keep  shovin'  me.  I  kicks 
up  when  I  'm  riled.  They  say  down  in  the  village — 

(It  is  now  a  sneeze  that  will  not  dislodge.  He  has 
hopes  of  it  for  a  breathless  moment,  but  it  proves 
to  be  a  dud.) 

CAPTAIN:  There  's  Petey — 

PATCH  :  We  're  jest  fidgettin'  fer  the  news. 

CAPTAIN:  The  news?  Oh,  yes.  Now  yer  hears  it. 
(He  draws  the  pirates  near.)  A  great  merchantman 
has  jest  sailed  from  Bristol.  The  Royal  'Arry.  It  's 
her.  With  gold  fer  the  armies  in  France.  She  's  a 
brig  o'  five  hundred  ton.  This  night,  when  the  tide 
runs  out,  she  slips  away  from  Bristol  harbor.  With 
this  wind  she  should  be  off  Clovelly  by  this  time  ter- 
morrer  night. 

DARLIN'  :  Glory  ter  God ! 

DUKE:  And  then  Petey  will  douse  his  glim.  And 
we  '11  set  up  the  ship's  lantern. 

PATCH:  Smash! 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


71 


DUKE:  Then  Petey  will  light  hisself. 
PATCH:  And  we  '11  be  jest  as  innercent  as  babies 
rockin'  in  a  crib. 


"The  Royal  'Airy.     It 's  her." 

DUKE:  And  lay  it  on  the  helmsman  fer  bein' 
sleepy. 

CAPTAIN:  And  I  Ve  other  news.  Down  in  the 
village  they  say — fer  a  fishin'  sloop  brought  the 
word — that  his  'Ighness,  the  Prince  o'  Wales,  left 
London  a  month  ago. 

DUKE:  And  him  not  givin'  me  word.  I  calls  that 
shabby.  He  was  me  fag  at  Eton. 

PATCH:  Does  yer  think,  Captain,  he  '11  spend  a 
week-end  with  us,  ridin'  to  the  'ounds,  jest  tellin'  us 
the  London  gossip — how  the  pretty  Duchesses  is 
cuttin'  up? 

DUKE:  I   thought   he   was   settin'    in   Whitehall, 


72  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

tryin'  on  crowns,  so  as  ter  get  one  that  did  n't  scratch 
his  ears. 

CAPTAIN:  They  say  he  's  incarnito. 

PATCH:  What?  Is  it  somethin'  yer  ketches  like 
woliygogs  in  the  stomich? 

DUKE:  Igerence.  I  'm  'shamed  o'  yer,  Patch. 
Ain  't  yer  been  ter  school?  Ain  't  yer  done  lessons  on 
a  slate?  Ain  't  yer  been  walloped  so  standin'  's  been 
comfertabler.  The  Captain  and  me  soils  ourselves 
talkin'  to  yer.  Incarnito  is  dressed  up  fancy,  so  as 
no  one  can  know  him. 

DARLIN'  :  Like  Cindereller  at  the  party. 

DUKE:  If  yer  wants  Patch  ter  understand  yer, 
Captain,  yer  has  got  to  use  leetle  words  as  is  still 
pullin'  at  their  bottles. 

DARLIN':  When  words  grow  big  and  has  got 
beards  they  jest  don  't  say  nothin'  to  Patch. 

CAPTAIN:  This  here  Prince  o'  Wales  is  journeyin' 
down  Plymouth  way. 

DUKE:  What  's  that  ter  us?  I  'm  askin'  yer.  His 
'Ighness  cut  me  when  I  passed  him  in  Piccadilly. 
The  bloomin'  swab !  I  pulled  me  hat,  standin'  in  the 
gutter,  but  he  jest  seemed  ter  smell  somethin'. 

PATCH:  It  were  n't  roses,  I  'm  tellin'  yer. 

CAPTAIN:  Silence!  They  say  he  has  sworn  an 
oath  to  break  up  the  pirate  business  on  the  coast. 

PATCH:  And  let  us  starve?    It  's  unfeelin'. 

DUKE:  No  pickin's  on  the  beach? 

JOE:  I  'd  like  to  catch  him.    I  'd  slit  his  wizen. 

DARLIN':  I  'd  put  pizen  in  the  pig  I  feeds  him. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  73 

DUKE:  I  'd  nudge  him  off  the  cliff — jest  like  he 
were  a  sneakin'  snooper. 

CAPTAIN:  Well,  there  's  yer  news!  I  'm  dry. 
Darlin'!  Some  grog! 

(He  crosses  to  the  table  and  draws  the  pirates  around 

him.) 

CAPTAIN  :  Here  's  to  the  Royal  ' Arry ! 
DUKE:  And  may  the  helmsman  be  wery  sleepy! 
DARLIN':  And  we  as  innercent  as  leetle  pirates 
suckin'  at  their  bottles! 
ALL:  The  Royal  'Arry! 

(While  the  cups  are  still  aloft  there  is  a  loud  banging 
at  the  door.  An  old  woman  enters — old  Meg. 
We  have  seen  her  but  a  minute  since  pass  the  win 
dows.  Perhaps  she  is  as  dirty  as  Darlin  .  A 
sprig  of  mistletoe,  even  at  the  reckless  New  Year, 
would  wither  in  despair.  She  is  a  gypsy  in  gor 
geous  skirt  and  shawl,  and  she  wears  gold  ear 
rings.  Any  well-instructed  nurse-maid  would 
huddle  her  children  close  if  she  heard  her  tapping 
up  the  street.  Meg  walks  to  the  table.  She  sniffs 
audibly.  It  is  grog — her  weakness.  She  drinks 
the  dregs  of  all  three  cups.  She  rubs  her  thrifty 
finger  inside  the  rims  and  licks  it  for  the  precious 
drop.  She  opens  her  wallet  and  takes  from  it  a 
fortune-tellers  crystal.) 

MEG:  I  tells  fortins,  gentlemen.  Would  n't  any 
o'  yer  like  ter  see  the  future?  I  sees  what 's  comin'  in 
this  here  magic  glass.  I  tells  yer  when  ter  set  yer 
nets — and  of  rising  storms.  Has  any  o'  yer  a  kind  o' 


74  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

hankerin'  fer  matrimony?    I  can  tell  yer  if  the  lady 
be  light  or  dark.    It  will  cost  yer  only  a  sixpence. 

CAPTAIN:  Yer  insults  me.  Fer  better  and  fer 
worse  is  usual  fer  worse.  Does  yer  think  yer  can 
anchor  an  ol'  sea-dog  like  me  to  a  kennel  as  is  made 
fer  landlubbery  lap  dogs?  I  Ve  deserted  three 
wives.  And  that  's  enough.  More  's  a  hog. 

(He  retires  to  the  fireplace  in  disgust.} 

DARLIN':  Husbands  is  nuisances,  as  I  was  tellin' 
the  sea-captain,  jest  afore  he  cut  his  throat. 

DUKE:  Thank  ye,  ol'  lady,  I  docs  n't  need  yer. 
When  the  ol'  Duke  is  willin',  he  knows  a  leetle  dear 
as  will  come  flutterin'  to  his  arms. 

PATCH:  What  can  yer  do  fer  an  ol'  sailorman  like 
me?  I  'd  like  someone  with  curlin'  locks,  as  can 
mix  grog  as  good  as  Darlin's.  And  I  likes  roast  pig — 
crackly,  as  Darlin'  cooks  it.  (He  offers  his  hand.) 
I  has  a  leetle  girl  in  mind,  but  she  's  kinder  holdin' 
off.  What  does  yer  see,  dearie?  Does  yer  hear  any 
fiddles  tunin'  fer  the  nupshals?  Is  there  a  pretty 
lady  waitin'  fer  a  kiss? 

MEG:  I  sees  the  ocean.  And  a  ship.  I  sees  inside 
the  cabin  o'  that  ship. 

PATCH:  Does  yer  see  me  as  the  captain  o'  that 
ship?  Jest  settin'  easy,  bawlin'  orders — jest  feedin' 
on  plum  duff. 

MEG:  I  sees  yer  in  irons. 

PATCH:  Mother  o'  goodness!     Now  yer  done  it! 

MEG:  I  sees  Wappin'  wharf.  I  sees  a  gibbet.  I 
sees — 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


'I  sees  a  gibbet.    I  sees 


70  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

PATCH:  Horrers! 

MEG:  I  sees  you  swingin'  on  that  gibbet — stretch- 
in'  with  yer  toes — swingin'  in  the  wind. 

PATCH  :  Yer  makes  me  grog  sour  on  me. 

(He  goes  to  the  rear  of  the  cabin  and  looks  discon 
solately  over  the  ocean.} 

MEG:  (as  she  looks  in  the  glass).  I  sees  misfortin 
fer  everyone  here — 'cept  one — tragedy,  the  gibbet. 
Go  not  upon  the  sea  until  the  moon  has  turned.  Ha ! 
Leetle  glass,  has  yer  more  to  show?  Has  yer  any 
comfert?  The  light  fades  out.  It  is  dark. 

DUKE:  Ain  't  yer  givin'  us  more  'n  a  sixpence 
worth  o'  misery?  Yer  gloom  is  sloppin'  over  the 
brim. 

MEG:  Ah!  Here  's  light  agin  at  last.  There  's  a 
red  streak  across  the  dial.  It  drips!  It  's  blood! 

CAPTAIN  :  Ain  't  yer  got  any  pretty  picters  in  that 
glass? 

PATCH:  Graveyards  are  cheerfuller  'n  gibbets. 

MEG:  Peace!  I  sees  a  man  in  a  velvet  cloak.  It  's 
him  that  swings  yer  to  a  gibbet.  It  's  him  that 
strangles  yer  till  yer  eyes  is  poppin'.  That  man 
avoid  like  a  pizened  snake. 

CAPTAIN:  Avoid?  By  the  rotten  bones  o'  Flint, 
if  I  meets  that  man  in  a  velvet  cloak  I  hooks  out  his 
eye. 

DUKE:  Captain,  yer  sweats  yerself  unnecessary. 
(Slyly.)  Here  's  Red  Joe,  ol'  dear.  Joe  's  a  spry 
young  feller.  He  looks  as  if  he  might  be  hankerin' 
fer  a  wife.  Hey,  Darlin'? 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  77 

DARLIN':  He  's  the  kind  as  wampires  makes  their 
wictims. 

(With  a  laugh — but  unwillingly — Joe  holds  out  his 

hand.) 

MEG  :  (as  she  looks  in  the  glass  her  face  brightens) . 
I  sees  a  tall  buildin'  with  gold  spires.  I  hears  a  shout 
o'  joy  and  I  hears  stately  music,  like  what  yer  hears 
in  Bartolmy  Fair  arter  the  Lord  Mayor  has  made  his 
speech.  I  sees  a  man  in  a  silk  cloak.  He  swaggers 
to  the  music.  I  sees — I  sees — 

(She  looks  long  in  the  glass  and  seems  to  see  great 
and  unexpected  things.    Her  eyes  are  as  wide  as  a 
child's  at  a  tale  of  fairies.    It  is  no  less  a  moment— 
but  how  different! — than  when  Lady   Bluebeard 
peeped  in  the  forbidden  door.    Scarcely  was  Little 
Red  Riding  Hood  more  startled  when  she  touched 
the   strange   bristles   on   her  grandmother's  chin. 
But  Meg  is  not  frightened.     She  smiles.     She 
bends  intently.     She  is  about  to  speak.     Then  she 
sinks  into  the  chair  behind  the  table.) 
MEG  :  I  sees — I  sees — nothin' !    The  glass  is  blank ! 
CAPTAIN:  Nothin'?    Jest  nothin'  at  all? 
PATCH  :  Ain  't  there  no  blood  drippin'  ? 
DARLIN':  Ner  gibbets? 

CAPTAIN:  Ner  sailormen  swingin'  in  the  wind? 
(Old  Meg  is  visibly  affected  by  what  she  has  seen. 
The  Duke,  with  a  suspicious  glance  at  Red  Joe, 
moves  forward  to  look  over  her  shoulder  at  the  glass. 
Slyly  she  sees  him.  She  pushes  the  crystal  forward 
and  it  breaks  upon  the  stones.  Then  she  rises 


78  WAPP1N'   WHARF 

abruptly.      She    lifts    a    portentous  finger.      She 
advances  to  Red  Joe.) 

MEG:  I  sees  danger  fer  yer,  Joe.  Who  can  tell 
whether  it  be  death?  'T  is  beyond  my  magic.  But 
beware  a  knife!  Go  not  near  the  cliff!  (Then,  in  a 
lower  tone.)  You  will  see  me  agin.  And  in  your 
hour  o'  danger.  When  yer  least  expects  it. 

(She  is  about  to  curtsy,  but  turns  abruptly  and  leaves 
the  cabin.  Darlin  ,  with  shaken  nerves,  runs  to 
bolt  the  door.  There  is  silence  except  for  the 
monotone  of  rain.) 

PATCH  :  Nice  cheerful  ol'  lady,  I  says. 
CAPTAIN:  Yer  can  pipe  the  devil  up,  but  she  give 
me  shivers. 

JOE:  For  just  a  minute  I  thought  some  old  lady 
had  died  and  left  me  her  money  box. 

(The  Duke  picks  up  a  fragment  of  the  crystal  and  puts 
it  to  his  eye.  He  examines  it  at  the  candle,  and 
turns  it  round  and  round.  He  makes  nothing  of 
it,  and  shakes  his  head.) 

PATCH  :  Yer  can  dim  me  gig  that  's  left,  I  'm  clean 
upset. 

CAPTAIN:  I  ain  't  been  so  down  in  the  boots  since 
the  blessed  angels  took  Flint  ter  'ell. 

DUKE:  Captain,  you  and  Patch  is  melancholier  'n 
funerals.  Weepin'  widders  is  jollier.  Will  yer  let  a 
hanted,  thirsty,  grog-eyed  grand-daughter  o'  a 
blinkin'  sea-serpent  upset  yer  'appy  dispersitions? 
Stiffen  yerself !  Keep  yer  nose  up,  Captain!  We  has 
sea  enough.  We  're  not  thumpin'  on  the  rocks. 


WAPPIN*   WHARF  79 

CAPTAIN:  Yer  said  it,  Duke.  I  sulks  unnecessary. 
There  's  ol'  Petey  shinin'  up  there.  Termorrer  night, 
if  the  wind  holds,  we  '11  see  his  starin'  eye  go  out,  and 
our  lantern  shinin'  at  t'  other  winder.  (He  takes  a 
pirate  flag  from  his  boot.  He  smoothes  it  with  affection. 
Then  he  waves  it  on  his  hook.}  The  crossbones  as  hung 
on  the  masthead  o'  the  Spittin'  Devil.  Ol'  Flint's 
wery  flag.  Him  as  they  hanged  on  a  gibbet  on  Wap- 


Flint's  wery  flag" 


pin'  wharf.  It  was  a  mirky  night  like  this,  with 
'prentices  gawpin'  in  the  lanterns  and  Jack  Ketch 
unsnarlin'  his  cursed  ropes.  I  spits  blood  ter  think 
o'  it. 

DUKE:  I  '11  die  easy  when  I  've  revenged  his  death 
and  the  ol'  clock  is  tickin'  peaceful  and  Flint  sleepin' 
'appy  in  his  rotten  coffin. 

CAPTAIN:  A  drink  all  'round.     We  '11  drink  the 


80  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

health  o'   this   here  flag.      You   '11   drink   with   us, 
Darlin'. 

DARLIN':  Yer  spoils  me,  Captain. 

(Everyone  drinks.) 

CAPTAIN:  And  now  we  '11  drink  confusion  to  the 
swab  that  's  settin'  on  the  English  throne. 

(All  drink  except  Red  Joe.  He  makes  the  pretense, 
but  pours  his  grog  out  covertly.  Our  play  is  nothing 
if  not  subtle.) 

DUKE:  Here  's  to  ol'  Flint! 
ALL:  Here  's  to  ol'  Flint! 

(It  is  bed-time.  They  all  stretch  and  yawn.  The 
Captain  climbs  the  ladder  to  the  sleeping  loft. 
Patch  follows  with  the  candle,  warming  the  Cap 
tain's  seat  for  speed.  The  Duke  comes  next,  carry 
ing  his  one  boot  which  he  has  removed  before  the 
fire.  Darlin'  kisses  her  hand  to  the  Duke  and 
retires  to  the  kitchen.  We  suspect  that  she  curls  up 
inside  the  sink,  with  a  stewpan  for  a  pillow.  Red 
Joe  lingers  for  a  moment  and  stands  gazing  at  the 
ocean.) 

JOE:  My  memory  fumbles  in  the  past.  I,  too,  hear 
familiar  voices — lost  for  many  years.  A  dark  curtain 
lifts  and  in  the  past  I  see  myself  a  child.  There  are 
strange  tunes  in  the  wind  tonight.  Methinks  they 
sing  the  name  of  Margaret. 

(lie  climbs  the  ladder.  And  now,  with  an  occasional 
dropping  boot,  the  pirates  prepare  for  bed.  Pres 
ently  we  hear  the  Duke  up  above,  singing — 
vigorously  at  first,  until  drowsiness  dulls  the  tune.) 


WAPPLN*   WHARF 


81 


It  is  said  in  port  by  the  sailor  sort, 
As  they  swig  all  night  at  their  rum, 
That  a  jolly  grave  is  the  ocean  wave, 
But  a  churchyard  bell  's  too  glum. 
I  agrees  ter  this  and  ter  give  'em  bliss — 
From  Pew  I  learned  the  trick— 
I  push  'em  wide  o'  the  wessel's  side 
And  poke  'em  down  with  a  stick. 


Darlin'  warms  her  old  red  stockings 


82  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

(Darlin'  enters.  With  a  prodigious  yawn  she  sits 
at  the  fire.  She  kicks  off  her  slippers  and  warms 
her  old  red  stockings.  She  comforts  herself  with 
grog  and  spits  across  the  hearth.  She  sleeps  and 
gently  snores.  The  Duke  continues  with  his 
song.) 

Ol'  Flint  had  a  fist  and  an  iron  wrist, 

And  he  thumped  on  the  nose,  it  is  said, 

Till  a  wictim's  gore  ran  over  the  floor 

And  he  rolled  in  the  scuppers  dead. 

But,  Patch,  there  's  a  few,  I  'm  tellin'  ter  you, 

Who  's  nice  and  they  hates  a  muss, 

And  a  plank,  I  contend,  is  a  tidier  end. 

No  sweepin',  nor  scrapin',  nor  fuss. 

Captain  Kidd,  when  afloat,  put  the  crew  in  a  boat, 
And  he  shoved  'em  off  fer  to  starve. 
On  a  rock  in  the  sea,  says  he  ter  me — on  a  rock 
In  the  sea,  says  he  ter  me — on  a  rock— 

(The  singer's  voice  fails.  Sleep  engulf  s  him.  Silence! 
Then  sounds  of  snoring.  The  range  of  Caucasus 
hath  not  noisier  winds.  Let  's  draw  the  curtain  on 
the  tempest!} 


ACT  II 

It  is  the  same  cabin  on  the  following  night.  There  is  no 
thunder  and  lightning,  but  it  is  a  dirty  night  of 
fog — as  wet  as  a  crocodile's  nest — and  you  hear 
the  water  dripping  from  the  trees.  The  Duke, 
evidently,  has  had  an  answer  to  his  "Now  I  lay 
me."  The  lighthouse,  as  before,  shows  vaguely 
through  the  mist. 

In  this  scene  we  had  wished  to  have  a  moon.  The  Duke 
will  need  it  presently  in  his  courtship;  for  mar- 
velously  it  sharpens  a  lover's  oath.  'T  is  a  silver 
spur  to  a  halting  wooer.  Shrewd  merchants,  I  am 
told,  go  so  far  as  to  consult  the  almanac  when 
laying  in  their  store  of  wedding  fits;  for  a  cloudy 
June  throws  Cupid  off  his  aim.  What  cosmetic — 
what  rouge  or  powder — so  paints  a  beauty!  If  the 
moon  were  full  twice  within  the  month  scarcely  a 
bachelor  would  be  left.  I  pray  you,  master  car- 

83 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


penter,  hang  me  up  a  moon.  But  our  plot  has  put 
its  foot  down.  "Mirk,"  it  says,  "mirk  and  Jog 
are  best  for  our  dirty  business." 

We  had  wished,  also,  to  place  one  act  of  our  piece  on  the 
deck  of  a  pirate  ship,  rocking  in  a  storm.  Such 
high  excitement  is  your  right,  for  your  payment  at 
the  door.  It  required  but  the  stroke  of  a  lazy  pencil. 
But  our  plot  has  dealt  stubbornly  with  us.  We  are 
still  in  the  pirates'  cabin  in  the  fog. 

We  hear  Darlin  singing  in  the  kitchen,  as  the  curtain 
rises. 


Oh,  I  am  the  cook  fer  a  pirate  band 
And  food  I  never  spoil. 
Cabbage  and  such,  it  sure  ain  't  much, 
Till  I  sets  it  on  ter  boil. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  86 

And  I  throws  on  salt  and  I  throws  on  spice, 
And  the  Duke,  he  says  ter  me, 
Me  Darlin',  me  pet,  I  'm  in  yer  debt, 
And  he  sighs  contentedlee. 

(There  is  a  rattle  of  tinware.     Patch-Eye  sings  the 
next  stanza  in  the  loft.} 

On  the  Strand,  it  's  true,  I  'm  tellin'  ter  you, 

The  Dukes  and  the  Duchesses  dwell. 

And  they  dines  in  state  on  golden  plate— 

Eatin'  and  drinkin'  like  'ell. 

But  I  says  ter  you,  and  it  's  perfectly  true, 

They  stuffs  theirselves  too  much; 

And  a  mutton  stew,  when  yer  gets  it  through, 

Is  better  than  peacocks  and  such. 

(More  tinware  in  the  kitchen.     And  now  Darlin 
again!} 

I  've  cooked  in  a  brig  to  a  dancin'  jig 

Which  the  sea  kicks  up  in  a  blast. 

And  me  stove  's  slid  'round  until  I  've  found 

A  rope  ter  make  it  fast. 

But  I  braces  me  legs  and  the  Duke,  he  begs 

Fer  puddin'  with  sweets  on  the  side. 

Me  Darlin',  it  's  rough,  and  I  likes  yer  duff. 

I  '11  marry  yer,  Darlin',  me  bride. 

(In  her  reckless  joy  at  this  dim  possibility  she  over 
turns  the  dishpan.     During  the  song  the  Duke's 


86  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

legs  have  appeared  on  the  ladder.     He  descends, 
fetching  with  him  a  comb  and  mirror. 
He  brushes  his  hair.     This  is  unusual  and  he  finds  a 
knot  that  is  harder  than  any  Gordian  knot  what 
soever.     He    smoothes   and   strokes   his 
whiskers.     He  goes   so  far  as  to  slap 
himself  for  dust.     He  puts  a  sprig  of 
flowers — amazing! — in  the  front  of  his 
cloak.    He  practices  a  smile  and  gesture. 
He  seems  to  speak.    He  claps  his  hand 
pray  you,  uPon  his  heart.     Ah,  my  dear  sir,  we 
master  car-  have  guessed  your  secret.     The  wind,  as 
P  e  n  t  e  r,  hang  ye^  blows  from  the  south,  but  a  pirate 
me  up  a  moon"          •,  ,7  •  TT.     7         , 

waits  not  upon  the  spring.    His  lover  s 

oath  pops  out  before  the  daffodil.  I  pray  you, 
master  carpenter,  hang  me  up  a  moon. 
And  now  the  Duke  stands  before  us  the  King  of  smiles. 
His  is  the  wooer's  posture.  He  speaks,  but  not 
with  his  usual  voice  of  command.  Oberon,  as  it 
were,  calls  Titania  to  the  woodland  when  stars  are 
torch  and  candle  to  the  sleeping  world.) 

DUKE:  Betsy!    Betsy! 

(She  appears.  The  Duke  wears  a  silly  smile.  But 
did  not  Bottom  in  an  ass's  head  win  the  fairy 
princess?  A  moon,  sweet  sir!  And  now — sud 
denly! — the  magic  night  dissolves  into  coarsest 
day.) 

DUKE:  Would  yer  like  ter  be  the  Duchess? 

(This  is  abrupt  and  unusual,  but  nice  customs  curtsy 
to  Dukes  as  well  as  Kings.) 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  87 

DUKE:  I  'in  askin'  yer,  Betsy.  Yer  ol'  Duke  is 
askin'  yer.  I  'm  lovin'  yer.  Yer  ol'  Duke  is  lovirT 
yer.  I  '11  do  the  right  thing  by  yer.  I  '11  marry  yer. 
There!  I  Ve  said  it.  When  yer  married  yer  can 
jest  set  on  a  cushion  without  nothin'  ter  do — (reflec 
tively)  nothin'  'cept  cookin'  and  washin'  and  darnin'. 
Does  yer  jump  at  me,  Betsy? 

(/  confess,  myself,  a  mere  man,  unable  to  analyze 
Betsy' 's  emotions.  She  stands  staring  at  the  Duke, 
as  you  or  I  might  stare  at  a  hippopotamus  in  the 
front  hall.  I  have  bitten  my  pencil  to  a  pulp— 
the  maker's  name  is  quite  gone — but  I  can  think 
of  no  lines  that  are  adequate.  Her  first  surprise, 
however,  turns  to  amusement.) 

DUKE  :  Ain  't  yer  a  kind  o'  hankerin'  fer  me?  Come 
ter  me  arms,  sweetie,  and  confess  yer  blushin'  love. 
I  'm  askin'  yer.  I  'm  askin'  yer  ter  be  the 
Duchess. 

BETSY:  But  I  do  not  love  you,  Duke. 

(In  jest,   however,  the  little   rascal  perches  on  his 

knee.) 

DUKE  :  Make  yerself  comfertable.  Yer  husband  's 
willin'.  When  I  cramps,  I  shifts  yer.  Kiss  me,  when 
yer  wants. 

BETSY:  You  are  an  old  goose. 
DUKE:  Did  I  hear  yer?    Does  yer  hold  off  fer  me 
ter  nag  yer?    The  ol'  Duke  's  waitin'  ter  fold  yer  in  his 
lovin'  arms. 

BETSY:  I  do  not  love  you,  Duke. 

(The  Captain  and  Patch-Eye  have  thrust  their  heads 


88  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

through  the  opening  above  the  ladder,  and  they 
listen  with  amusement.) 

DUKE:  I  'm  blowed.  I  'm  a  better  man  than 
Patch.  I  'm  tellin'  yer.  Is  it  me  stump,  Betsy? 
I  has  n't  a  hook  hand  like  the  Captain.  Yer  has  got 
ter  be  linked  all  'round.  There  's  no  fun,  I  says,  in 
bein'  hugged  by  a  one-armed  man.  Yer  would  be 
lop-sided  in  a  week. 

BETSY:  It  's  just  that  I  do  not  love  you,  Duke. 

DUKE:  Yer  wounds  me  feelin's.  Does  n't  I  ask 
yer  pretty?  Should  I  have  waited  fer  a  moon  and 
took  yer  walkin'?  And  perched  with  yer  on  the 
rocks,  with  the  ol'  moon  winkin'  at  yer,  shovin'  yer 
on?  The  Duke  's  never  been  refused  before.  A 
number  o'  wery  perticerler  ladies,  arter  breakfast 
even,  has  jest  come  scamperin'.  'T  ain  't  Patch,  is  it 
Betsy?  A  pretty  leetle  girl  would  n't  love  a  feller  as 
has  one  eye.  It  ain  't  the  Captain.  He  ain  't  no  hand 
with  the  ladies.  Yer  not  goin'  ter  tell  me  it 's  Petey? 
I  would  n't  want  yer  ter  fall  in  love  with  a  blinkin' 
light. 

BETSY:  You  have  lovely  whiskers,  Duke. 

DUKE:  Yer  can  pull  one  fer  the  locket  that  yer 
wears.  Are  yer  makin'  fun  o'  me? 

BETSY:  I  would  n't  dare. 

DUKE:  Does  yer  mean  it,  Betsy?  Are  yer  re- 
lentin'?  Are  yer  goin'  ter  say  the  'appy  word  as 
splices  us  from  keel  to  topsail?  Yer  ain't  jest  a  cruel 
syren  are  yer,  wavin'  me  on,  hopin'  I  '11  smash  me- 
self  ?  Are  yer  winkin'  at  me  like  ol'  Flint's  lantern — 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  89 

me  thinkin'  it  's  love  I  see,  shinin'  in  yer  laughin' 
eyes? 

BETSY:  Why  don't  you  marry  Darlin'? 

DUKE:  Her  with  one  tooth?  Yer  silly.  I  boohs 
at  yer.  Ol'  ladies  with  one  hoof  inside  a  coffin 
does  n't  make  good  brides.  Yer  wants  someone 
kinder  gay  and  spry,  as  yer  can  pin  flowers  to. 

BETSY:  She  loves  you,  Duke. 

DUKE:  Course  she  does.  So  does  the  oP  lady  as 
keeps  the  tap  at  the  Harbor  Light,  and  one-eyed  Pol 
as  mops  up  the  liquor  that  is  spilt.  And  youngsters, 
too.  A  pretty  leetle  dear — jest  a  cozy  armful — was 
winkin'  at  me  yesterday — kinder  givin'  me  the 
snuggle-up.  I  pities  'em.  It  's  their  nater,  God 
'elp  'em,  ter  love  me;  but  the  oP  Duke  is  perticerler. 
Yer  has  lovely  eyes,  Betsy — blessed  leetle  mirrors 
where  I  sees  Cupid  playin'.  They  shines  like  the 
lights  o'  a  friendly  harbor. 

BETSY:  Darlin'  cooks  roast  pig  that  crackles. 

DUKE  :  I  sets  me  heart  on  top  me  stomich.  Ain  't 
yer  comfertable,  sett  in'  on  me  knee?  Shall  I  shift 
yer  to  me  stump?  Betsy,  I  calls  arter  we  are  mar 
ried,  fetch  me  down  me  slipper  and  lay  it  on  the 
hearth  ter  warm.  Yer  husband  's  home.  And  I 
tosses  yer  me  boot,  all  mud  fer  cleanin'.  And  then 
yer  passes  the  grog.  And  arter  about  the  second  cup 
I  limbers  up  and  kisses  yer.  And  then  yer  sets  upon 
me  knee.  It  will  be  snug  on  winter  evenin's  when 
the  blast  is  blowin'.  And  when  we  're  married  yer 
can  kiss  me  pretty  near  as  often  as  yer  please.  And 


90  WAPP1N'   WHARF 

I  won  't  deny  as  I  won  't  like  it.  The  ol'  Duke  ain  't 
slingin'  the  permission  'round  general.  Darlin'  nags 
me.  What  yer  laughin'  at? 

BETSY:  You  silly  old  man! 

DUKE:  Yer  riles  me.  Once  and  fer  all,  will  yer 
marry  me?  I  '11  not  waste  the  night  argyin'  with  yer. 
I  'm  not  goin'  ter  tease  yer.  I  Ve  only  one  knee  and 
it  ain  't  no  bench  fer  gigglin'  girls  as  pokes  fun  at 
their  betters.  I  '11  jolt  yer  till  yer  teeth  rattles.  Is 
it  someone  else?  Has  yer  a  priory  'tachment? 
Red  Joe?  Is  it  Red  Joe,  Betsy?  Is  he  snoopin' 
'round? 

(Betsy  rises  with  sobered  mood,  and  walks  away.) 

DUKE:  There  's  somethin'  about  that  young 
feller  I  does  n't  like.  He  's  a  snooper.  Betsy,  does 
yer  get  what  I  'm  talkin'  about?  I  have  offered  ter 
make  yer  the  Duchess.  I  '11  buy — I  '11  steal  yer  a 
set  o'  red  beads.  I  '11  give  yer  a  sixpence — \vithout 
no  naggin' — every  time  yer  goes  ter  town,  jest  ter 
spend  reckless.  I  '11  marry  yer.  I  '11  take  yer  ter 
Minehead  and  get  the  piousest  parson  in  the  town. 
Would  yer  like  Darlin'  fer  a  bridesmaid — and  grog 
and  angel-cake?  Me  jest  settin'  ready  ter  kiss  yer 
every  time  yer  passes  it.  I  'm  blowed!  You  are 
wickeder  than  ol'  Flint's  lantern.  It  must  be  Red 
Joe.  Him  with  the  smirk!  There  's  a  young  feller 
'round  here,  Betsy,  as  wants  ter  look  out  fer  his 
wizen. 

(But  Betsy  has  run  in  panic  to  the  kitchen.) 

DUKE:  I  does  n't  understand  'em.     I  'm  thinkin' 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


91 


the  girl  's  a  fool.    A  ninny  I  calls  her.    It  's  Red  Joe. 
Off  a  cliff!    Yer  said  it,  Darlin'.    Off  a  cliff ! 

(He  removes  the  sprig  of  flowers  and  tosses  it  into 

the  fire. 

Bough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date:— 
He  retires  to  the  rear  of  the  cabin  and  strokes  the 
parrot's  head.    He  jerks  away  his  hand  for  fear  of 
being  nipped.     The  ungrateful  world  has  turned 
against  him.} 

DUKE:  Yer  a  spiteful  bird.    Yer  as  mean  as  women. 
Ninnies  I  calls  'em.     It  must  ha'  been  the  moon. 
I  should  ha'  waited  fer  a  moon. 
(He  sits  on  the  chest  at  the  rear 
of  the  cabin  and  whittles  a  little 
ship.    Women  are  a  queer  lot. 
The  Captain  and  Patch-Eye  have 
climbed  down  the  ladder.     They 
burst  with  jest.    The  Captain  sits 
on  the  chair  by  the  fire,  mimic- 
ing   the    posture    of   the   Duke. 
Patch-Eye  perches  on  his  knee.) 
PATCH:  Darlin'  loves  yer,  Duke. 
CAPTAIN:  Course  she  does.    They 
all  does.    Youngsters,  too — winkin' 
and  givin'  me  the  snuggle-up. 

PATCH:  Yer  has  lovely  whiskers, 
Duke. 

CAPTAIN  :  Yer  can  pull  one,  Betsy,     « Yer  as  mean  as 
fer  the  locket  that  yer  wears.  women" 


J.F. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


(But  the  Duke  ends  the  burlesque  by  upsetting  the 
chair.  The  Captain  and  Patch-Eye,  chuckling 
at  their  jest,  sit  to  a  game  of  cards.  The  Duke 
returns  to  the  chest.  Once  in  a  while  he  lays 
down  the  ship  and  seems  to  be  thinking.  The 
broken  crystal  of  the  fortune-teller  lies  on  the  floor. 
He  picks  it  up  and  puts  it  to  his  eye,  as  if  the  future 
may  still  show  upon  its  face.  He  is  preoccupied 
with  his  disappointment  and  his  bitter  thoughts. 

Darlin  ,  meantime,  is  heard  singing  in  the  kitcfien 
with  her  dishes.) 

Fer  griddle  cakes  I  've  a  nimble  wrist 

And  I  tosses  'em  'igh  on  a  spoon. 

And  the  Duke  and  Patch  yer  can  hardly  match 

Fer  their  breakfast  they  stretch  till  noon. 

And  I  heaps  the  fire  and  I  greases  the  iron, 

And  the  Duke,  he  kisses  me  thumb. 

Me  Darlin',  me  dear,  it  's  perfectly  clear 

I  Ve  lovin'  yer  better  than  rum. 

Patch,  also  sings. 

She  's  cooked  fer  sailors  worn  down  to  the  bone, 

Till  they  rolls  like  the  Captain's  gig. 

At  soup  and  stew  we  are  never  through, 

But  our  fav'rite  dish  is  pig. 

And  she  cuts  off  slabs  and  passes  'em  'round, 

And  the  Duke,  he  takes  her  hand. 

Me  Darlin',  me  love,  by  the  gods  above, 

Yer  a  cook  fer  a  pirate  band. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  93 

And  now  Darlin'  again. 

Me  grog  is  the  best.    It  is  made  o'  rum, 

And  I  stirs  in  sugar,  too. 

And  a  hogshead  vast  will  hardly  last 

A  merry  evenin'  through. 

And  I  fills  the  cups  till  mornin'  comes, 

And  the  Duke,  he  talks  like  a  loon. 

Me  Darlin',  me  life,  will  yer  be  me  wife, 

And  elope  by  the  light  o'  the  moon. 

(Let  all  the  tinware  crash!} 

CAPTAIN:  (as  he  throws  down  his  cards).  There! 
I  done  yer.  Yer  a  child  at  cards,  Patch.  How  ain  't 
it  that  yer  never  learnt?  Did  n't  yer  ever 
play  black-ace  at  the  Rusty  Anchor  down 
Greenwich  way?  Crack  me  hook,  I  've 
played  with  ol'  Flint  hisself,  settin'  in  the 
leetle  back  room.  With  somethin'  wet 


and  warmin'  now  and  then,  jest  ter  keep  "Did  n't 

the  stomich  cozy.    Never  stopped  till  Phce-  yer  ever 

bus's  fiery  eye  looked  in  the  winder.  Black-ace 

PATCH:  Poor  ol'  Flint!     I  never  sees  his      at  the 
clock  up  there  but  I  drops  a  tear.  Rusty 

n  -\T  •  Anchor?" 

CAPTAIN:    Yer  cries  as  easy  as  a  croco 
dile.     And  yer  as  innercent  at  cards  as — as  a  baby 
bitin'  at  his  coral,  a  cooin'  leetle  pirate. 

PATCH:  It  's  frettin'  does  it,  Captain. 

CAPTAIN:  What  's  frettin'  yer? 

PATCH  :  It 's  what  the  ol'  lady  said  last  night.    She 
hung  me  ter  a  gibbet,  jest  like  ol'  Flint.    There  's  a 


94 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


gibbet,  Captain,  on  Wappin'  wharf,  jest  'round  the 
corner  from  the  Sailors'  Rest.  Does  yer  remember 
it,  Captain?  It  makes  yer  grog  belch  on  yer. 

CAPTAIN:  (to  tease  and  frighten  Patch}.  Aye. 
There  was  two  sailormen  hangin'  there  when  I  comes 
in  a  year  ago. 

PATCH:  Horrers! 

CAPTAIN:  Jest  swingin'  in  the  wind,  and  tryin' 
ter  get  their  toes  down  comfertable.  (He  has  hooked 


"Jest  swingin'  in  the  wind" 

two  empty  mugs  and  he  rocks  them  back  and  forth.) 
Jest  reachin'  with  their  footies  ter  ease  their- 
selves. 

PATCH:  The  ol'  lady  last  night  made  me  a  wee  bit 
creepy.  Gibbets  and  Wappin'  wharf  ain  't  nothin' 
ter  talk  about. 

CAPTAIN:  I  never  see  a  flock  o'  crows  but  I  asks 
their  pardon  fer  keepin'  'em  waitin'  fer  their  supper. 
Crows,  Patch,  is  fond  o'  yer  as  yer  are,  without 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  95 

neither  sauce  ner  gravy — jest  pickin'  'appy,  soup 
ter  nuts,  at  yer  dry  ol'  bones.  Here  's  ol'  Patch,  tkey 
says,  waitin'  in  the  platter  fer  his  'ungry  guests  ter 
come. 

PATCH:  Me  stomich  's  turned  keel  up. 

CAPTAIN:  Patch,  yer  ain  't  got  spunk  ter  be  a 
pirate.  Yer  as  soft  as  Petey's  pussycat. 

PATCH:  I  ain  't,  ain  't  I?  Was  n't  it  me  as  nudged 
the  Captain  o'  the  Northern  Star  off  his  poop — 
when  he  were  n't  lookin'?  Him  with  a  pistol  in  his 
boot!  Did  n't  I  hit  Bill,  the  bos'n,  with  a  marline- 
spike — jest  afore  he  woke  up?  Sweet  dreams,  I 
says,  and  I  tapped  him  gentle.  I  got  a  lot  o'  spunk. 
Bill  did  n't  wake  up,  he  did  n't.  Was  n't  it  me, 
Captain,  that  started  that  mutiny?  Was  n't  it  me? 
I  'm  askin'  yer. 

CAPTAIN:  Still  braggin'  o'  that  ol'  time.  It  was 
more  'n  four  years  ago.  What  yer  done  since?  Jest 
loadin'  yer  stomich — jest  gruntin'  and  wallerin'  in 
the  trough — jest  braggin'. 

PATCH:  I  ain  't  'fraid  o'  nothin' — 'cept  a  gibbet. 
(For  a  moment  the  ugly  word  sticks  in  his  gullet.)  But 
the  ol'  lady  kinder  got  me.  Yer  looked  down  yer 
nose  yerself,  Captain — askin'  yer  pardon. 

CAPTAIN:  Struck  me,  Patch,  she  was  jest  a  wee 
bit  flustered  by  Red  Joe.  Did  yer  notice  how  she 
sat  and  looked  at  the  glass?  And  would  n't  say 
nothin'?  Jest  nothin'  at  all. 

PATCH:  And  then  the  ol'  dear's  fingers  slipped 
and  the  glass  was  broke. 


96  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

CAPTAIN:  It  looks  almost  as  if  she  done  it  a  pur 
pose. 

(The  Duke  has  been  thinking  all  of  this  time  with 
necessary  contortions  of  the  face.     It  is  amazing 
how  these  help  on  a  knotty  problem.) 
DUKE:  Course  she  done  it  a  purpose.     It  was  ter 
stop  me  lookin'  'cross  her  shoulder  in  the  glass. 
CAPTAIN:  What  does  yer  think  she  saw? 
PATCH:  Was  it  blood  drippin'? 
DUKE:  I  '11  tell  yer.    I  '11  tell  yer. 

(But  he  continues  whittling.) 
CAPTAIN:  Well,  ain  't  we  listenin',  Duke? 
PATCH  :  Jest  strainin'  our  ears. 
DUKE:  I   '11   tell   yer.      I   squinted   in   the   glass, 
meself,  arter  it  was  broke. 

CAPTAIN  and  PATCH:  W7hat  did  yer  see? 
( There  is  intense  silence.     The  Duke  comes  forward 
to  the  table.    He  taps  his  fingers  sagely.    He  looks 
mysteriously  at  his  fellow  pirates.     They  put  their 
heads  together.    The  Duke  sinks  his  voice.    In  such 
posture  and  accent  was  the  gunpowder  plot  hatched 
out.) 
DUKE:  Nothin'!    Jestnothin'! 

(The  strain  is  over.     They  relax.) 
CAPTAIN:  The  Duke,  he  jest  seen  nothin'. 
PATCH:  Jest  nothin'  at  all. 

DUKE:  That  's  what  gets  me.  If  the  ol'  lady  'd 
seen  nothin',  she  would  n't  took  ter  fidgettin'.  Aiid 
therefore  she  seen  something  Does  yer  f oiler?  You, 
Captain?  I  'spects  nothin'  from  Patch. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


'I  'spects  nothin'  from 
Patch" 


PATCH  :  Yer  hurts  me  feelin's,  Duke. 

DUKE:  Somethin'  's  wrong.  Somethin'  's  wrong 
with  Red  Joe. 

PATCH:  Red  Joe  's  a  right 
smart  feller,  I  says. 

CAPTAIN:  He  can  shoot  as 
straight  as  ol'  Flint.  Barin' 
meself,  Joe  's  as  straight  a 
shot  as  I  've  seen  in  many  a 
year.  Patch,  agin  him,  is  jest 
a  crooked  stick. 

PATCH:  Pick  on  the  Duke 
jest  once,  why  does  n't  yer? 

DUKE:  Ease  off,  mates!  Red  Joe  ain  't  goin'  ter 
hang  on  no  gibbet.  'Cause  why?  'Cause  I  'm  tellin' 
yer.  I  '11  tell  yer  what  the  ol'  lady  seen  in  the 
glass. 

(Once  more  the  Duke  draws  the  pirates  around  him. 
He  is  Guy  Faux  and  the  wicked  Bothwell  rolled 
together.} 

CAPTAIN:  We  're  listenin',  Duke. 

PATCH:  Like  kittens  at  a  mouse-hole. 

DUKE:  Captain,  it  's  deuced  strange  that  Red 
Joe's  ship — nary  a  stick  o'  her — never  come  ter  shore. 
Does  yer  remember  a  wreck  'long  here  where  nothin' 
washed  ter  shore? 

CAPTAIN:  Yer  right,  Duke.    I  never  did. 

DUKE:  Does  you  remember  one,  stoopid? 

PATCH:  I  does  n't  remember  one  this  minute, 
Duke. 


98  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

DUKE:  Ol'  Flint,  he  had  a  pigtail,  did  n't  he?  And 
you  Ve  a  pigtail,  Captain,  has  n't  yer?  And  Patch- 
Eye,  he  's  got  what  he  calls  a  pigtail. 

CAPTAIN:  Spinach,  I  calls  it. 

DUKE:  And  oP  Pew,  he  'd  got  a  pigtail,  ain  't  he? 
And  every  blessed  man  as  sailed  with  him.  I  'm 
tellin'  yer,  Captain. 

PATCH  :  The  sea-cook,  he  did  n't  have  one. 

DUKE  :  Sea-cooks  ain  't  sailormen.  They  're  swabs. 
Jest  indoor  swabs.  Did  yer  ever  see  a  pirate  snipped 
all  'round  like  a  landlubber,  with  nary  a  whisp 
behind? 

CAPTAIN:  Yer  can  rot  me  keel,  Duke,  I  never  did. 

PATCH:  I  agrees  with  the  Captain. 

DUKE:  Red  Joe,  he  ain  't  got  a  pigtail. 

CAPTAIN  :  No  more  he  ain  't. 

PATCH:  Was  n't  it  Noah,  Captain;  as  got  his  pig 
tail  cut  by  some  designin'  woman?  Does  yer  think 
Red  Joe  's  gone  and  met  a  schemin'  wixen? 

CAPTAIN:  I  scorns  yer  igerence.  Yer  thinks  o' 
Jonah. 

DUKE:  Well?  Well?  I  Ve  told  yer  Red  Joe  ain  't 
got  a  pigtail.  Does  n't  yer  smell  any  thin'? 

CAPTAIN:  (as  he  turns  his  head  and  sniffs  audibly}. 
I  can  't  say  as  I  sniffs  nothin' — leastways,  nothin' 
perticerler.  I  smells  a  bit  o'  grog,  perhaps. 

PATCH  :  I  gets  a  whiff  o'  garlic  from  the  kitchen. 

DUKE:  The  two  o'  yer  never  can  smell  nothin' 
when  there  's  garlic  or  grog  around.  I  'm  askin'  yer 
pardon,  Captain.  Does  Red  Joe  talk  like  a  pirate? 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  99 

Sink  me,  he  can  't  rip  an  oath.  Did  yer  ever  know  a 
pirate  which  could  n't  talk  fluent? 

CAPTAIN:  What  's  bitin'  yer,  Duke? 

DUKE:  Ain  't  I  tellin'  yer? 

CAPTAIN:  Ain  't  we  listenin'? 

PATCH:  Jest  hangin'  on  yer  tongue? 

DUKE:  Captain,  you  and  me  and  Patch  has  seen  a 
heap  o'  sights.  We  knows  the  ocean.  We  knows 
her  when  she  's  blue  and  when  she  's  kickin'  'igher 
than  a  gallow's  tree. 

CAPTAIN:  We  has  been  ter  Virginy. 

PATCH:  We  has  traded  slaves  at  the  Barbadoes. 

DUKE:  And  does  n't  we  set  around  o'  nights  and 
swap  the  sights  we  seen — mermaids  and  sea-serpents 
and  such?  Did  yer  jest  once  ever  hear  Red  Joe  tell 
what  he  's  seen?  Yer  can  sink  me  stern  up  with  all 
lights  burnin',  if  I  think  the  feller  's  ever  been  beyond 
the  Isle  o'  Dogs. 

CAPTAIN:  What  's  bitin'  yer,  Duke? 

DUKE:  It  's  jest  this.  Red  Joe  ain  't  no  pirate. 
He  's  a  landlubber. 

(He  says  this  as  you  or  I  might  call  a  man  a 
snake.) 

CAPTAIN  :  (And  now  a  great  light  comes  to  him.  He 
is  proud  of  his  swift  perception.  He  leans  across  the 
table  to  share  his  secret  with  Patch.)  I  seem  ter  get 
what  Duke  means.  He  's  hintin',  Patch,  that  Red 
Joe  ain  't  a  pirate. 

PATCH:  If  he  ain 't  a  pirate,  what  is  he?  I  asks  yer 
that. 


100  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

DUKE:  (as  he  brings  down  his  fist  for  emphasis). 
He  's  a  bloomin'  spy. 

CAPTAIN  :  A  spy !  (He  gives  a  long-drawn  whistle  as 
the  truth  breaks  on  him.} 

PATCH:  If  I  thought  he  was  a  spy,  I  'd  ketch  him 
right  here  with  me  dirk.  I  hates  spies  worse  'n  empty 
bottles. 

CAPTAIN  :  I  'd  scrape  him  with  me  hook. 

DUKE:  I  've  been  thinkin',  Captain,  while  you  and 
Patch  has  been  amusin'  yerselves.  Askin'  yer  pardon, 
Captain,  but  cards  rots  the  mind.  Did  yer  ever 
know  a  pirate  that  ain  't  drunk  at  the  Port  Light  on 
Wappin'  wharf? 

CAPTAIN:  Not  as  yet  I  never  did.  I  never  knowed 
a  pirate  as  did  n't  have  a  double-barreled  nose  fer 
grog. 

DUKE:  Well,  when  Red  Joe  comes  in,  we  '11  jest 
ask  him.  And  we  '11  ask  him  if  he  ever  played  black- 
ace  at  the  Rusty  Anchor. 

CAPTAIN:  It  ain  't  no  night  ter  have  spies  about. 
With  the  Royal  'Arry  comin'  on  so  pretty. 

PATCH:  And  jest  gettin'  ready  ter  smash  hisself. 

DUKE:  That  innercent  ship  will  be  due  in  less  'n 
half  an  hour. 

CAPTAIN  :  If  Red  Joe  is  a  spy,  by  the  fiery  beard  o' 

Satan,  I  'm  tellin'  yer  that  dead  men  tell  no  tales. 

(He  lifts  the  terrible  hook  and  claws  the  air.) 

DUKE:  Askin'  yer  pardon,  Captain,  bein'  as  it 
was  me  as  smelled  him  out,  won  't  yer  let  me  slit  his 
wizen?  I  does  it  pretty,  without  mussin'  up  the 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


101 


I  'd  scrape  him  with  me  hook" 


102  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

cabin.  I  ain  't  askin'  favors  often,  Captain.  And 
I  Ve  'ticerler  reasons — reasons  as  touches  me  heart. 
(For  a  moment  he  is  almost  sentimental.)  Reasons  as 
touches  me  heart!  Red  Joe  's  been  snoopin'. 

CAPTAIN:  I  loves  yer,  Duke.  There  ain  't  much  as 
I  won  't  let  yer  have.  And  jest  ter  show  yer  that  I  'm 
all  cut  up  by  this  here  snoopin',  when  I  'm  dead  I  '11 
will  yer  this  ol'  hook  o'  mine,  as  has  scraped  a  hundred 
men. 

DUKE:  Yer  honors  me,  Captain.  And  if  I  is 
shoveled  in  first,  me  stump  is  yourn. 

CAPTAIN:  It  's  handsome  of  yer,  Duke.  And 
I  '11  not  be  jolly  till  a  year  is  up — jest  like  a  widder. 

DUKE  :  Yer  touches  me.  I  '11  tie  a  black  ribbon  on 
yer  hook. 

(At  this  pathetic  moment  Darlin'  is  heard  singing 
in  the  kitchen.) 

And  I  fills  the  cups  till  mornin'  comes, 
And  the  Duke,  he  talks  like  a  loon. 
Me  Darlin',  me  life,  will  yer  be  me  wife, 
And  elope  by  the  light  o'  the  moon? 

(There  is  a  stamping  of  boots  outside.  The  pirates 
put  their  fingers  on  their  lips.  They  are  innocence 
itself.  The  Duke  scratches  the  head  of  the  parrot. 
The  strange  bird  declines  to  taste  his  grog.  Patch- 
Eye  shuffles  the  cards.  The  Captain  hooks  the 
mugs  toward  him  one  by  one  for  the  last  drops  of 
their  precious  liquor.  Red  Joe  enters.  Also, 
Darlin'  from  the  kitchen.) 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  103 

JOE:  Hello,  mates!  Evening,  Captain!  Are  n't 
you  cozy!  As  peaceful  as  old  ladies  with  their  darn 
ing.  I  've  just  come  from  seeing  Petey,  up  at  the 
lighthouse.  Petey  says  that  along  in  about  fifteen 
minutes  the  Royal  Harry  will  be  showing  around  the 
cliff.  Is  n't  it  time,  Captain,  to  set  up  the  lantern 
where  's  she  's  useful? 

DUKE:  7s  n't  it?  Did  yer  hear  that,  Captain? 
Ain  't  it,  is  what  Red  Joe  means. 

CAPTAIN:  Right  yer  are,  Joey.  We  must  be  trot- 
tin'. 

DUKE:  What  's  the  name  o'  that  tavern,  Joe,  at 
Wappin'  wrharf  where  we  gets  the  uncommon  grog? 

JOE:  WTappin'  wharf?  I  'm  blessed  if  the  name  's 
not  gone  from  me.  The  grog  's  nothing  to  Darling 's. 

DUKE:  What  does  yer  call  the  tavern  on  the  Isle 
o'  Dogs? 

JOE:  I  'm  remembering  the  rum.  What  's  the  use 
of  looking  at  the  signboard? 

DUKE:  How  does  yer  sight  ter  turn  the  bar  at 
Guinea? 

JOE:  Sorry,  Duke.  It  was  my  watch  below.  I 
was  snoring  when  we  turned. 

CAPTAIN:  What  happened  to  yer  pigtail? 

PATCH:  Where  does  we  ship  the  niggers? 

DARLIN':  Ain  't  yer  got  a  mermaid  on  yer  chest? 

(The  pirates  have  risen  and  come  forward.  Their 
questions  are  put  faster  and  with  insolence.  Dirk 
and  hook  are  drawn.  Joe  stands  in  an  easy,  care 
less  attitude.  He  seems  ignorant  of  danger.  He 


104  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

has  taken  a  coal  from  the  fire  and  slowly,  delib 
erately,  with  back  to  the  menace,  he  lights  his  pipe. 
Then  suddenly  he  drops  it  from  his  teeth.  He 
leaps  to  action.  He  draws  his  knife — two  knives, 
one  for  each  hand.  He  kicks  away  a  chair,  for 
room.  He  drives  the  pirates  across  the  cabin.  The 
candle — all  the  mugs  upon  the  table — rattle  to  the 
stones.  He  cries  out  with  bravado.) 
JOE:  Who  offers  me  his  carcass  first?  What!  Is 
pirate  blood  so  thin  and  white? 

(The  pirates  stand  with  knives  drawn.    It  is  an  awk 
ward  moment  of  social  precedence. 
PATCH  :  (safe  in  the  farthest  corner) .    It's  me  patch, 
Captain.    It  's  fetched  loose.    I  f oilers  yer. 

JOE:  Come,  Duke,  and  take  your  answer!     Have 
you  no  stomach  for  my  message?    'Fore  God,  is  there 
no  black  ram  to  lead  his  sheep  to  the  shearing? 
(Joe  's  is  a  dangerous  gayety.    His  two  knives  glisten 

in  the  candle  light.) 

PATCH:  Scrape  him  with  yer  hook,  Captain,  I 
follers  yer. 

JOE:  My  knife  frets.  It  is  thirsty  for  thick  red 
wine.  Who  offers  me  his  cask  to  tap?  I  '11  pledge 
the  King,  although  it  is  a  dirty  vintage.  Come, 
Captain,  I  '11  carve  you  to  a  dainty  morsel.  We  '11 
have  fresh  meat  for  the  platter.  You  '11  not  be  known 
from  scared  rabbit-flesh. 

(He  drives  them  around  the  table.  Patch  takes 
refuge  behind  the  door.  Darlin  's  red  stockings 
run  up  the  ladder.) 


WAPP1N'   WHARF  105 

JOE:  You  bearded  hound! 

PATCH:  He  's  tauntin'  yer,  Captain.  Hand  him 
the  hook!  The  Duke  and  me  is  back  o'  yer. 

JOE:  Do  you  fear  to  cheat  the  gibbet  on  Wapping 
wharf?  A  knife  's  a  sweeter  end.  Who  comes  first? 
I  '11  help  him  across  the  Styx.  Or  sink  or  swim! 
Flint  waits  in  hell  for  three  whelps  to  join  his  crew. 
PATCH:  Captain,  I  'm  'sprized  at  yer  good  nater. 
Scrape  him  one! 

JOE:  Who  comes  to  the  barber  first?  Cowards! 
I  '11  ram  your  pigtails  down  your  throats.  I  '11  wash 
your  dirt  in  blood. 

(The  Duke  proves  to  be  the  strategist.  He  has  edged 
to  the  rear  of  the  cabin.  He  circles  behind  Red  Joe. 
And  now  in  a  flash  he  leaps  on  him.  Joe  is  buried 
under  the  three  pirates,  for  Patch's  valor  returns 
when  Joe  is  down.  Joe  is  tied  with  ropes  and 
fastened  to  an  upright  at  the  chimneyside.  This  is 
the  terrible,  glorious  moment,  now  that  the  fight  is 
over,  when  the  actor -manager,  as  I  first  read  the 
play — as  explained  in  the  preface  (you  really  must 
read  the  preface) — turned  his  excited  somersault 
down  the  carpet.} 

PATCH:  Did  yer  notice,  Captain,  how  I  took  him 
by  the  throat?  He  was  squirmin'  loose  when  I 
grabbed  him.  It  was  me  tripped  him. 

DUKE:  Captain,  I  asks  yer  a  favor.  Can  I  stick 
him  now.  Dead  men  tell  no  tales. 

PATCH:  Captain,  yer  jest  makes  a  pet  o'  the  Duke. 
Ain  't  it  my  turn?  I  gets  rusty. 


106 


WAPPIN'   WHARF 


DARLIN':  Let  the  Duke  do  it.  He  has  more  rea 
sons  than  Patch. 

CAPTAIN:  Lay  off,  me  hearties!  Does  n't  yer  know 
we  're  in  a  hurry?  Red  Joe  's  kickin'  up  has  wasted  a 
heap  o'  time.  The  Royal  'Arry  will  be  showin'  'round 
the  cliff  any  minute  now.  Red  Joe  's  safe.  He  's  tied 
up  double.  We  '11  have  a  merry  party  arterward— 

with  grog  and  angel  cake.  It 's 
business  afore  pleasure.  Here, 
Duke,  take  the  lantern.  (He 
shakes  it.}  It  's  full  o*  ile. 
Jest  stir  yer  timber  stump, 
Duke.  Yer  can  foller,  Patch. 
Yer  follers  better  'n  yer  leads. 
Some  folks  is  pussycats. 

DUKE:  He  's  pokin'  fun  at 
yer,  ol'  lion-heart. 

PATCH:  Yer  hurts  me  feel- 


It  's  full  o'  ile  " 


in  s. 

DUKE:  I  '11  hurt  yer  in  a 
fatter  place — where  yer  sits — if  yer  does  n't  step 
along.  Yer  a  yeller-livered,  maggoty  land  fish.  I 
curbs  me  tongue.  I  scorns  yer  worse  'n  cow's  milk. 
Go  'long,  afore  I  loosens  up  and  tells  yer  what  yer 
are! 

CAPTAIN:  In  about  two  minutes  that  blessed  eye 
o'  Petey  will  go  out.  We  must  set  up  the  lantern 
afore  the  Royal  'Arry  sticks  her  nose  in  sight. 

DUKE:  By  by,  Joey.  See  yer  later,  ol'  angel  cake. 
Yer  has  jest  time  ter  say  "Now  I  lay  me." 


WAPP1N'   WHARF  107 

CAPTAIN:  How  's  the  night,  Duke? 
DUKE:  Blacker  than  the  Earl  o'  Hell's  top-boots. 
DARLIN'  :  I  '11  jest  stick  me  apron  on  me  head  and 
go  'long,  too.     It  ain  't  proper  fer  a  lady  as  has  me 
temptin'  beauty  ter  be  left  alone  with  snoopers. 
(The  cabin  is  empty  except  for  Red  Joe.    He  strains 
at  his  cords,  but  is  tied  fast.     You  hear  the  voices 
of  the  pirates  singing  in  the  distance.} 
I  agrees  ter  this  and  ter  give  'em  bliss — 
From  Pew  I  learned  the  trick — 
I  push  'em  wide  o'  the  wessel's  side, 
And  poke  'em  down  with  a  stick. 
(As  soon  as  the  pirates  have  left  the  cabin  Betsy 
enters.     She  sees  Joe  but  passes  him  in  fright. 
She  runs  to  the  window  and  shields  her  eyes  to  see 
into  the  darkness.} 

BETSY  :  God  help  the  poor  sailormen ! 
JOE  :  Betsy !    Betsy !    For  the  love  of  God ! 
(Suddenly  the  lighthouse  light  vanishes.    And  almost 
at  once  the  ship's  lantern  shows  at  the  window  to 
the  left.    All  sounds  are  hushed.} 
BETSY:  The  ship  's  in  sight.    I  see  her  lights.    She 
has  rounded  the  farther  cliff.    I  see  her  turning.    She 
heads  in  from  the  sea.     Her  three  masts  are  in  line. 
She  steers  for  the  lantern.    God  have  mercy!  She  '11 
strike  in  another  minute.     (She  stuffs  her  ears  and 
runs  from  the  window.}    I  can 't  bear  to  listen.    I  can't 
bear  to  look. 

JOE:  Betsy!     Betsy!     Do  you  hear?     Margaret! 
Margaret ! 


108  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

(At  the  sound  of  Margaret  she  lifts  her  head,  buried 
in  her  arms.  She  runs  toward  Joe.  Her  wits  seem 
dazed.} 

JOE:  Quick!    Margaret!    Margaret!    That  knife! 
That  knife  on  the  stones!    Margaret,  cut  me  loose! 
(Still  dazed,  moving  as  if  in  a  dream,  Betsy  picks  up 
the  knife.    She  cuts  Joe's  cords.    Joe  seizes  the  gun 
that  leans  against  the  clock.     He  takes  deliberate 
aim  through  the  window.    He  fires.     The  window 
glass  is  shattered.    The  ship's  lantern  is  hit.     The 
light  vanishes.    He  replaces  the  gun.    Betsy  stands 
beside  him,  looking  in  his  face.) 
BETSY:  You  Ve  hit  it!    Thank  God!    The  light  is 
shattered.     (Then,  after  a  pause.)    I  seem  to  remem 
ber  now.     My  name  is  Margaret.     I  remember — 
JOE:  What  do  you  remember? 
BETSY:  A  great  staircase — a  room,  with  shadows 
from  a  candle.    And  when  I  was  afraid,  a  lady  sang 
to  me.     And  she  set  the  candle  so  that  the  fearful 
giant  upon  the  wall  ran  off,  and  I  was  safe. 
JOE:  What  else  do  you  remember? 
BETSY:  I  remember — 
JOE:  Margaret,  do  you  remember  me? 
(Margaret  looks  at  him  and  a  new  memory  is  stirred.) 
BETSY:  Yes,  I  remember  you.     Were  you  not  a 
great  tall  lad  whose  crook'd  elbow  was  level  with  my 
head?    And  once  we  climbed  a  tower — or  do  I  recall  a 
dream?    You  held  me  so  that  I  might  see  the  waves 
breaking  on  the  rocks  below.    Then  with  level  eyes 
we  looked  upon  the  sea,  and  cried  out  our  discovery 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  109 

of  each  glistening  sail.  Are  these  things  real?  One 
morning  you  mounted  horse,  and  I  was  held  aloft 
so  that  you  might  stoop  and  kiss  me.  You  rode  off 
with  a  clatter  on  the  stones.  You  turned  and  waved 
your  hat.  And  now  you  have  come  back.  You  are 
Hal.  We  were  playmates  once. 

JOE  :  And  by  luck  and  God's  help  we  shall  be  play 
mates  once  again. 

(He  puts  his  arms  around  her  and  kisses  her.} 

BETSY:  Quick,  Hal!  You  must  escape.  Quick! 
Before  the  pirates  come.  Follow  the  path  to  the 
village!  You  can  escape  by  the  Royal  Harry. 

(They  are  running  to  the  door  when  there  is  a  sound 
of  voices  On  the  path  outside.  Joe  has  just  time  to 
put  himself  in  the  posture  in  which  the  pirates  left 
him.  The  pirates  and  Darlin  enter  in  dejection. 
Betsy  runs  to  the  kitchen. 

CAPTAIN  :  Blast  me,  the  lantern  's  out ! 

PATCH  :  Rot  me,  but  there  were  an  explosion ! 

DARLIN':  Poof!    And  there  were  n't  no  lantern! 

DUKE:  What  done  it?    What  done  it?    I  asks  yer. 

(They  stand  at  the  window  and  look  toward  the  ocean.} 

DUKE:  She  is  still  headed  on.  Her  nose  is  still 
pointin'  toward  the  cliff. 

CAPTAIN:  \Vhat  's  that? 

DUKE:  I  hears  the  rattlin'  o'  chains.  She  's  drop- 
pin'  anchor.  She  has  sniffed  the  willainy.  Her 
anchor  's  down.  She  's  saved  hisself.  Blow  me, 
she  's  saved  hisself. 

CAPTAIN  :  Yer  can  hang  me  ter  a  gibbet. 


110 


WAPPIN'  WHARF 


PATCH  :  Yer  can  rot  me  bones. 
DARLIN'  :  Me  heart  's  gone  palpy . 
DUKE:  What  done  it?    What  done  it?    I  asks  yer. 
(At  this  point  let  us  hope  that  the  curtain  does  not 
stick.) 


What  done  it?  I  asks  yer  " 


ACT  III 

The  scene  is  the  same  as  before.     We  have  given  up  all 
hope  of  a  pirate  ship  rocking  on  the  sea.    Our  plot 
still  twists  us  around  its  little  finger.     The  curtain 
rises  on  the  tableau  of  the  second  act.     Old  Petey 
shows  again  at  the  window  to  the  right. 
DUKE:   What  done  it?     What  done  it?     I   asks 
yer. 

PATCH:  Jest  when  everythin'  was  goin'  pretty. 
CAPTAIN:  Jest  when  she  was  about  ter  hit. 
DARLIN':  Me   heart   near    stopped — I    was    that 
excited. 

(The  pirates  sit  in  deep  dejection.) 
DUKE:  The  mystery  o'  this  business  is  how  the 
blinkin'  lantern  went  out. 

CAPTAIN:  Ol'  Petey  done  his  part. 
PATCH  :  He  doused  herself  in  time. 
CAPTAIN:  It  was  the  lantern  done  it. 
DUKE:  When  there  were  n't  no  light  at  all,  the 

m 


112  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

Royal  'Any,  she  jest  sniffed  willainy  and  dropped 
anchor. 

PATCH:  I  was  repeatin'  Smash  yer  devil!  Smash 
yer  devil! — kinder  hurryin'  her  on. 

DARLIN':  I  was  sayin'  Now  I  lay  me — throbbin' 
with  excitement. 

DUKE:  It  was  n't  ile.  I  put  ile  in  the  lantern 
meself.  Captain,  yer  seen  me  put  in  ile. 

CAPTAIN:  I  seen  yer.  And  I  swished  it  meself 
ter  be  sure. 

PATCH:  Nothin's  been  right  since  that  oF  lady 
hanged  me  ter  a  gibbet. 

CAPTAIN:  There  we  was  watchin' — 

PATCH:  Pop! 

CAPTAIN:  And  all  of  a  sudden — quicker  'n  seven 
devils — the  bloomin'  lantern  went  all  ter  pieces.  It 's 
grog,  I  says.  Snakes  is  next.  It  were  a  comfert  to 
the  oF  Captain  ter  know  that  all  o'  yer  seen  it.  I 
seen  a  yeller  rhinoceros  once,  runnin'  along  with 
purple  mice — all  alone  I  seen  it — and  it  kinder  sick 
ened  me  o'  rum. 

PATCH:  Does  yer  think  the  lantern  exploded? 

DUKE:  Did  yer  ever  hear  o'  a  ship's  lantern  ex- 
plodin'?  I  asks  yer,  Captain. 

CAPTAIN  :  Yer  talks  silly,  Patch.  That  lantern  has 
hung  fer  twenty  year  on  ol'  Flint's  ship — swingin' 
easy  and  contented  all  'round  the  Horn — and  it 
ain  't  never  exploded  once. 

DUKE:  Swabs'  lanterns  explode,  stoopid.  Ships' 
lanterns  don  't.  Captain,  I  feels  as  mournful  as  when 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  113 

Flint's  clock  did  n't  tick  no  more  and  we  knowed  he 

was  took  by  the  blessed  angels. 

CAPTAIN:  I  ain  't  meself  as  gay  as  a  cuckoo — not 

quite  I  ain  't. 

PATCH  :  Ever  since  that  ol'  lady— 
DUKE:  Lay  off  on  that  ol'  lady! 
(They  sit  in  silence,  in  dejection.  All  stare  stupidly  at 
the  floor.  For  a  moment  it  seems  as  if  nothing  more 
will  be  said  and  the  audience  might  as  well  go  home. 
But  presently  the  Duke  sees  something  at  the  rear 
of  the  cabin.  He  looks  as  you  or  I  would  look 
if  we  saw  a  yellow  elephant  taking  its  after-dinner 
coffee  in  the  sitting-room;  but,  as  he  is  a  pirate,  he  is 
not  frightened — merely  interested  and  intent.  He 
brushes  his  hand  before  his  eyes,  to  make  sure  it  is 
no  delusion — not  grog  or  rum.  Then  he  rises 
softly.  He  crosses  to  the  window.  Very  gently  he 
touches  the  glass.  He  finds  it  is  really  broken. 
He  loosens  a  piece  of  the  shattered  glass.  The 
others  are  sunk  in  such  melancholy  that  they  do  not 
observe  him. 

He  gazes  through  the  window,  studying  the  direction  of 
the  broken  ship's  lantern.  He  traces  the  angle  with 
his  finger.  The  gesture  ends  with  an  accusing 
finger  pointing  at  Red  Joe.  He  whistles  softly. 
For  a  moment  his  eye  rests  upon  the  gun,  which 
leans  against  the  clock.  He  has  guessed  the  riddle. 
He  advances  casually,  but  with  dirk  in  hand.  He 
comes  in  front  of  Joe.  Suddenly  he  presses  the 
blade  of  his  dirk  against  Joe's  stomach.) 


114  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

DUKE:  Captain!    Captain!    Quick!    Tie  him  up! 
(Joe  is  bound  again  with  rope.} 

DUKE:  It  's  him  that  done  it.    It  's  Red  Joe. 

CAPTAIN:  How  did  he  get  loose? 

DUKE:  (as  he  points  to  the  knife  on  the  floor) .  Does 
yer  see  that  knife?  Does  yer  see  Joe?  I  'm  tellin' 
yer.  It  was  him  shot  out  the  lantern. 

PATCH:  Did  n't  I  help  ter  tie  him  meself? 

DUKE:  Askin'  yer  pardon,  Captain,  but  you  and 
Patch  has  the  brains  o'  a  baby  aligator.  A  stuffed 
rhinocopoterus  is  pos'-lutely  nothin'.  Askin'  yer 
pardon  fer  speakin'  so  plain.  I  does  all  yer  thinkin' 
for  yer.  There  's  some  folks  settin'  here  as  are  fat- 
headed,  and  thinks  ships'  lanterns  explode. 

PATCH:  Easy  now,  ol'  dear.  Yer  alers  pitchin' 
inter  me,  'cause  I  'm  good-natered. 

CAPTAIN:  Red  Joe,  I  calls  yer  a  dirty  spy.  A 
swab!  A  landlubber!  Fer  one  copper  farthin'  I  'd 
ketch  yer  one  with  this  hook. 

DUKE:  It  was  me  discovered  him.  I  asks  yer, 
Captain,  ter  leave  Red  Joe  ter  me.  I  hates  him  most 
perticerler. 

(Betsy  enters  from  the  kitchen.} 

BETSY:  Did  you  call,  Captain? 

DARLIN':  Nobody  ain  't  callin'  yer,  dearie.  Now 
jest  toddle  back  to  the  kitchen. 

DUKE:  This  ain  't  no  place  fer  a  leetle  girl.  It  will 
give  yer  bad  dreams.  Mince  pie  's  nothin'. 

(Betsy  attempts  to  leave  the  cabin  by  the  door  that 
leads  to  the  cliffs — the  door  at  the  rear  of  the  cabin.} 


WAPP1N'   WHARF 


115 


DUKE:  Where  you  goin',  Betsy? 

BETSY:  I  've  an  errand  in  the  village. 

DUKE  :  Well,  yer  ain  't  goin'.  It  ain  't  no  night  fer  a 
leetle  girl  ter  be  out.  I  ain  't  goin'  ter  have  me 
Duchess  snifflin'  with  a  cold.  Go  to  grandma!  It 
was  me  discovered  him,  Captain.  I  'm  askin'  yer  a 
favor.  He  's  a  snooper. 

PATCH:  Captain,  I  gets  rusty. 

CAPTAIN:  Lay  off,  me  hearties.  Duke!  Patch! 
I  loves  both  o'  yer.  I  loves  yer  equal,  like  two  mugs 
o'  grog  as  is  full  alike.  Yer  can  pitch  dice  ter  see 
which  does  it. 

(He  places  the  dice  cup  on  the  table  beside  the  candle. 
The  Duke  and  Patch  take  their  places.  Betsy, 
under  cover  of  this  centered  interest,  runs  to  Red 
Joe,  who  whispers  to  her.) 

DUKE:  I  drops  'em  in  me  mug,  so  's  they  can  get  a 
smell  o'  rum.  The  leetle  bones  is  me  friends.  I 
never  throws  less  'n  a  five  spot. 
I  makes  a  pint  o'  shakin'  the 
bones  till  they  rattles  jolly.  I 
likes  the  sound  o'  it  even  better  'n 
the  blessed  scrapin'  o'  a  spoon 
what  's  stirrin'  grog.  Write  it  on 
me  tombstone — if  I  rots  ashore — 
He  was  the  kinder  feller  as  never 
throwed  less  'n  a  five  spot. 

CAPTAIN:  Go    'long,    Duke. »    Bones,    as    is 
waitin',  sulks. 

PATCH:  One  or  three? 


The  leetle  bones  is  me 
friends" 


kept 


116  WAPP1N'   WHARF 

DUKE:  One  's  enough.  I  'm  talkin'  to  yer,  bones. 
I  wants  sixes,  sweeties.  • 

(As  he  throws  Betsy  jostles  the  candle  with  her  arm. 
It  overturns  and  falls.  The  cabin  is  dark.  You 
can  see  her  run  from  the  cabin  and  pass  the  windows 
to  the  left.} 

DUKE:  Now  yer  done  it! 

PATCH:  You  is  all  thumbs,  Betsy. 

CAPTAIN:  Easy,  mates!  It  were  jest  an  accident. 
Betsy,  fetch  a  seacoal  from  the  hearth!  Betsy! 
We  ain't  goin'  ter  wallop  yer.  Where  are  yer, 
Betsy? 

DARLIN'  :  Come  out  o'  yer  hidin' ! 

CAPTAIN:  I  '11  light  the  candle  meself. 

(He  takes  it  to  the  fire,  lights  it  and  returns  to  the 
table.} 

CAPTAIN:  There  yer  are — blazin'  like  ol'  Petey. 
Yer  had  better  sit  down,  Betsy.  Crack  me  stump, 
where  is  the  girl? 

PATCH:  Kinder  silly  o*  her  ter  run  away.  We 
ain  't  never  walloped  her. 

DUKE:  Women  's  silly  folks.  I  calls  'em  ninnies. 
It  don  't  do  no  good  tryin'  ter  understand  'em.  Now 
then,  ol'  lionheart,  are  yer  ready?  (He  throws.} 
Two  fives !  I  've  done  yer,  Patch. 

(It  is  Patch's  turn.    He  kisses  the  cubes.} 

PATCH  :  Yer  as  sweet  as  honey.  Tell  me  yer  loves 
me.  Me  dirk  is  itchin'  fer  yer  answer.  Luck  's  a 
lady  as  dotes  on  me.  (He  throws.}  A  pair  o'  sixes! 
Does  yer  see  it,  Duke?  Stick  yer  blinkin'  eye  right 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  117 

down  agin  the  table!  It  's  me,  Captain.  (He  rises 
and  draws  his  knife.}  Joey  are  yer  ready? 

JOE:  God,  if  I  were  loose  I  'd  take  you  by  the 
dirty  gullet  and  twist  it  until  you  roared.  I  'd  kick 
you  off  my  path  like  a  snarling  cur.  Of  what  filth 
does  nature  sometimes  compound  a  man!  Shall  a 
skunk  walk  two-legged  to  infect  the  air?  Three 
cowards  will  hang  on  Wapping  wharf  before  the 
month  is  up. 

PATCH:  Are  n't  meanin'  us,  are  yer  Joey? 

JOE:  And  I  '11  tell  you  more. 

CAPTAIN:  Ain  't  we  listenin'  to  yer?  Yer  can  talk 
spry,  as  Patch  here  has  a  leetle  job  ter  do,  and  it  's 
nearin'  bed  time. 

DUKE:  We  does  n't  want  ter  sit  up  late  and  lose 
our  beauty  sleep  jest  listenin'  to  a  speech. 

JOE:  A  pirate  takes  his  chance  of  death.  You 
guard  your  dirty  skins  by  wrecking  ships  upon  the 
rocks.  You  dare  not  pit  yourselves  against  a  breath 
ing  victim.  Like  carrion-crows  you  sit  to  a  vile  and 
bloated  banquet. 

PATCH:  Tip  me  the  wink,  Captain,  when  yer  has 
heard  enough. 

JOE  :  Stand  off,  you  whelp !  The  King  of  England 
fights  in  France — 

DUKE  :  Ain 't  yer  'shamed  that  you  is  not  there  ter 
help? 

JOE:  I  '11  tell  you  why  I  am  not  in  France.  I 
swore  to  his  majesty  that  I  would  clear  his  coast  of 
pirates.  My  plans  are  made.  The  channel  is  swept 


118  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

by  gunboats.  They  will  close  in  on  you  tomorrow — 
you  and  all  the  dirty  vermin  that  befoul  these  cliffs. 

DUKE:  He  talks  so  big,  ye  'd  think  he  was  the 
King  himself. 

(Everyone  laughs  at  this.  The  Duke  takes  the  cloak 
from  the  chest.  In  derision  he  hangs  it  across  Red 
Joe  's  shoulders.) 

DUKE  :  We  '11  play  ch'rades.  Here  's  yer  costume, 
Joey.  There!  It  fits  yer  like  the  skin  o'  a  snake. 
We  makes  yer  King.  Yer  looks  like  yer  was  paradin' 
in  St.  James's  park,  lampin'  a  Duchess. 

PATCH:  Does  yer  majesty  need  a  new  'igh  chan 
cellor.  I  asks  yer  fer  it.  I  wants  a  fine  house  in 
London  town,  runnin'  ter  the  Strand,  and  peacocks 
struttin'  in  the  garden. 

CAPTAIN:  King,  I  asks  yer  ter  cast  yer  gig  on  me. 
I  'd  be  a  right  smart  Archbishop  o'  Canterbury.  Me 
whiskers  is  'clesiastical. 

DUKE:  I  offers  meself,  King,  as  Lord  'Igh  Admiral 
o'  the  Navy.  I  swears  fluent. 

DARLIN':  Has  yer  a  Princess  vacant?  I  lolls 
graceful  on  a  throne.  (The  horrid  creature  spits.) 

CAPTAIN:  'Vast  there,  me  hearties!  I  'm  thinkin' 
I  'm  hearin'  the  sound  o'  footsteps. 

DUKE:  (to  Patch).  Did  yer  lordship  hear  any 
sound? 

PATCH:  Askin'  your  Grice's  pardon,  I  did  n't 
ketch  a  thing.  Did  you  hear  anythin',  Princess? 

DARLIN':  There  's  nothin'  come  ter  me  pearly 
ears. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  119 


CAPTAIN:  Silence!    I  wants  ter  listen. 

(No  sound  is  heard.} 

CAPTAIN:  Well,  Patch,  yer  had  better  get  yer  dirk 
ready.  I  'm  uncommon  sleepy.  I  wants  ter  get  ter 
bed. 

DARLIN'  :  Ketch  him  a  deep  one,  Patch. 

PATCH:  I  takes  it  mighty  kind  o'  you,  Captain. 
Yer  has  alers  been  a  lovin'  father  ter  me.  Joey,  I  '11 
tell  yer  what  yer  are.  Yer  the  kind  o'  feller  I  hates 
most  perticerler.  Yer  a  spy!  Say  yer  prayers,  you 
hissin'  snake! 

(He  sharpens  his  dirk  and  gayly  tests  it  on  his  whis 
kers.} 

JOE:  My  wasted  day  is  done.  In  the  tempest's 
wrack  the  stars  are  dim  and  faith  's  the  only  com 
pass.  Now  or  hereafter,  what  matters  it?  The 
sun  will  gild  the  meadows  as  of  yesteryear.  The 
moon  will  fee  the  world  with  silver  coin.  And  all 
across  the  earth  men  will  traffic  on  their  little  errands 
until  nature  calls  them  home.  I  am  a  stone  cast  in  a 
windy  pool  where  scarce  a  ripple  shows.  Life  's  but  a 
candle  in  the  wind.  Mine  will  not  burn  to  socket. 

DUKE  :  He  's  all  wound  up  like  a  clock — jest  tickin' 
words. 

CAPTAIN:  Patch,  Joe  is  tellin'  us  poetical  that  his 
wick  has  burned  right  down  to  the  bottle.  Yer  had 
better  put  it  out,  without  more  hesitatin'. 

(And  now,  as  they  are  intent  for  the  coming  blow- 
suddenly!  quietly! — a  woman's  hand  and  arm — a 
claw,  rather,  with  long,  thin,  shrivelled  fingers — 


120  WAPPLN'   WHARF 

have  come  in  sight  at  the  window  with  the  broken 
glass. 

It  quite  terrifies  me  as  I  write.  My  pencil  shakes. 
Old  ladies  will  want  to  scream. 

The  fingers  grope  along  the  silL  They  fumble  on  the 
wall.  They  stretch  to  reach  the  gun  which  stands 
beside  the  clock.  Another  inch  and  they  will  grasp 
it  and  Red  Joe  will  be  saved.  The  arm  rubs 
against  the  pendulum  of  the  clock.  It  swings  and 
the  clock  starts  to  tick.  And  still  no  one  has  seen 
the  terrible  hand.  And  now  the  fingers  are  thrust 
blindly  against  the  gun.  It  falh  with  a  clatter  on 
the  stones.  The  hand  and  arm  disappear.  But 
Darlin'  has  seen  the  swinging  pendulum  and 
shrieks.) 

DUKE:  Does  yer  see  it,  Captain? 

PATCH:  Horrers! 

DUKE:  It  's  never  went  since  Flint  was  hanged. 

CAPTAIN:  And   would   n't   run   till   his   death    's 
revenged  and  him  layin'  peaceful  in  his  coffin. 

PATCH:  Does  yer  think  it  's  grog?    Does  all  o'  yer 
see  it? 

DUKE:  What  done  it? 

(From  the  distance  is  heard  a  long-drawn  whistle.) 

CAPTAIN:  What  's  that? 

PATCH  :  It  makes  me  jumpy. 

DUKE:  It  ain  't  a  night  when  folks  whistles  jest  fer 
cows  and  such.    Finish  yer  job,  Patch. 

PATCH:     Are    yer    feared    o'    somethin'    special, 
Duke? 


WAPPIW   WHARF 


121 


DUKE:  Feared?    If  we  ain  't  quick,  there  '11  be  a 
gibbet  fer  all  o'  us. 

CAPTAIN:  Ain  't  the  clock  tickin'  peaceful? 

PATCH  :  She  ain  't  got  no  right  ter  tick.    It 's  like  a 
dead  man  talkin'. 

DUKE:  Quick!  Give  me  the  knife!  I  '11  stick  it  in 
him.  And  when  I  'm  done,  we  scatters.  There  's 
trouble  brewin'.  Termorrer 
night,  when  the  tide  is  out, 
we  meets  at  the  holler  cave. 
And  may  the  devil  lend  a 
helpin'  hand.  Snooper,  are 
yer  ready?  Does  yer  see 
this  here  blade  shinin'  in 
the  candle?  In  about  one 
minute  I  '11  be  wipin'  off 
a  streak  o'  red  upon  me 
breeks.  Flint — blessin'  on 
yer  gentle  soul! — yer  can 
rest  in  peace! 

(He  approaches  Joe  with  upraised  knife.  Suddenly 
he  cries  out.} 

DUKE:  It  's  him  the  fortin-teller  mentioned.    It  's 
the  man  in  a  velvet  cloak! 

CAPTAIN:  It  's  him!    Me  God!    Me  hook! 

(With  a  growl  of  rage  the  pirates  leap  forward  toward 
Joe,  but  are  arrested  by  the  sound  of  running  feet. 
Into  the  cabin  rushes  the  sailor  captain,  followed 
by  three  sailors.  The  sailor  captain  cries  "'Vast 
there!"  and  the  pirates  turn  to  face  his  men.  They 


'  I'll  be  wipin  off  a  streak  o'  red 
upon  me  breeks  " 


122  WAPPIW   WHARF 

put  up  a  fight  worthy  of  old  Flint.  Darlin',  to 
escape  the  rough-and-tumble  runs  half  way  up  the 
ladder.  The  table  is  overturned.  The  stools  are 
kicked  across  the  room.  Even  the  precious  grog  is 
spilled.  But  the  pirates'  valor  is  insufficient. 
They  are  overpowered  at  last  and  tied.  Red  Joe's 
cords  are  cut.  Into  the  cabin  Betsy  comes  running, 
followed  by  old  Meg.} 

BETSY:  Joe!    Hal!    Thank  God,  you  are  safe. 
JOE:  Margaret! 

SAILOR  CAPTAIN:  I  am  the  captain  of  the  Royal 
Harry. 

JOE:  Captain,  I  charge  you  to  arrest  these  men. 
SAILOR  CAPTAIN:  Yes,  your  Royal  Highness. 
DUKE:  Royal   'Ighness?     Did  yer  hear  what  he 
said? 

DARLIN'  :  'Ighness  nothin*.     He  's  jest  a  snooper. 
(She  sits  on  the  floor,  with  her  head  on  the  Duke's 
knee.    She  is  staunch  to  the  last — a  true  cook  for  a 
pirates'  band.) 

JOE:  You  will  transport  them  in  chains  to  London 
to  wait  their  sentence  by  a  court  of  law. 
SAILOR  CAPTAIN:  Yes,  your  majesty. 
JOE:  You  mistake  me,  Captain.    My  father  is  the 
King  of  England.    I  am  but  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

SAILOR  CAPTAIN:  Alas,  sire,  we  bring  you  heavy 

news.    Your  Royal  Father,  the  King  of  England,  has 

been  killed,  fighting  gloriously  on  the  soil  of  France. 

JOE:  Bear   with   me.      My   grief   has   leaped   the 

channel.     My  thought  is  a  silent  mourner  at  my 


WAPP1N'   WHARF  123 


father's  grave.  Shall  a  King  sink  to  the  measure  of  a 
mound  of  turf  for  the  tread  of  a  peasant's  foot? 
Where  is  now  the  ermine  robe,  the  glistening  crown, 
the  harness  of  a  fighting  hour,  the  sceptre  that 
marked  the  giddy  office,  the  voice,  the  flashing  eye 
that  stirred  a  coward  to  bravery,  the  iron  gauntlet 
shaking  in  the  pallid  face  of  France?  All — all  covered 
by  a  spadeful  of  country  earth.  Captain,  has  Calais 
fallen  to  our  army's  seige?  Are  the  French  lilies 
plucked  for  England's  boutoniere? 
SAILOR  CAPTAIN:  Calais  has  fallen. 
JOE:  Then  God  be  praised  even  in  this  hard  hour. 
By  heaven's  help  I  throw  off  the  idle  practice  of  my 
youth.  The  empty  tricks  and  trivial  habits  of  the 
careless  years,  I  renounce  them  all.  A  wind  has 
scoured  the  sullen  clouds  of  youth.  My  past  has 
been  a  ragged  garment,  stained  with  heedless  hours. 
Tonight  I  cast  it  off,  like  a  coat  that  is  out  at  elbow. 
My  father  henceforth  lives  in  me. 

(Meg,,  at  her  entrance,  has  sniffed  the  wasted  grog. 
Her  nose,  surer  than  a  hazel  wand,  inclines  above 
the  hearth.  She  bends  to  the  lovely  puddle.  She 
employs  and  tastes  her  dripping  finger — covertly, 
with  mannerly  regard  to  the  Prince's  rhetoric- 
sucking  in  secret  his  good  health  and  happy  returns, 
so  to  speak.  The  liquor  warms  her  tongue — not  to 
drunkenness,  but  to  ease  and  comfort.  The 
hearth-stone  is  her  tavern  chair.} 
MEG:  (not  boisterously — with  just  a  flip  of  her 
trickling  finger,  as  if  it  were  a  foaming  cup).  Hooray! 


124  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

I  wants  ter  be  the  first,  yer  Majesty,  ter  swear  alle 
giance  to  yer  throne.  I  saw  yer  future  in  the  glass. 
Ol'  Meg  knowed  yer,  like  she  had  rocked  yer  in  the 
cradle.  I  told  yer  I  would  come  in  yer  hour  o' 
danger.  It  was  me  reached  through  the  winder  fer 
the  gun  ter  save  yer.  It  was  me  whistle  that  yer 
heard,  dearie,  hurryin'  up  the  sailormen  as  Betsy 
went  ter  fetch. 

JOE:  Thanks  my  good  woman.  We  grant  you  a 
pension  for  your  love. 

(She  quests  back  to  her  pool  of  grog.  She  finds  a 
spoon.  SJie  sits  to  the  delicious  salvage,  with  back 
against  the  chimney  and  woolen  legs  out-stretched. 
Speeches  to  her  are  nothing  now.  We  cannot 
expect  her  help  in  winding  up  our  play.  The 
burden  falls  on  Joe.  We  must  be  patient  through  a 
sentimental  page  or  two. 

JOE:  Ha!  My  velvet  cloak,  which  I  left  at  Castle 
Crag  when  I  laid  aside  the  Prince  and  took  disguise. 
These  unintentioned  ruffians  by  their  dirty  jest  have 
clothed  me  to  my  office. 

SAILOR  CAPTAIN:  I  swear  my  allegiance,  your 
Majesty. 

JOE:  I  rely  on  my  sailors  to  clear  the  coast  and 
seas.  But  first  I  want  your  allegiance  in  another  high 
concern.  Some  fourteen  years  ago,  when  I  was  a 
lad  of  ten,  I  journeyed  with  my  royal  father  to  the 
castle  of  the  Duke  of  Cornwall,  which  stands  high 
on  the  wind-swept  coast.  Its  giddy  towers  rise  sheer 
above  the  ocean  until  the  very  rooks  nesting  in  the 


WAPPIW   WHARF 


battlements  grow  dizzy  at  the  height.  It  is  the  outer 
bastion  of  the  world,  laughing  to  scorn  the  ocean's 
seige. 

In  that  castle,  Captain,  there  lived  a  little  girl;  and 
she  and  I  romped  the  sounding  corridors  together. 
And  once  I  led  her  to  an  open  'brasure  in  the  steep- 
pitched  wall,  and  held  her  so  that  she  might  see  the 
waves  curling  on  the  rocks  below.  And  tales  of 
mermaids  I  invented,  and  shipwreck  and  treasure 
buried  in  the  noisy  caverns  of  the  rock,  where  twice  a 
day  the  greedy  tide  goes  in  and  out  to  seek  its  for 
tune.  And  far  afield  we  wandered  and  stood  waist- 
deep  in  the  golden  meadows,  until  the  weary  twilight 
called  us  home. 

And  I  remember,  when  tired  with  play,  that  her 
mother  sang  to  us  an  old  song,  a  lullaby.  Her  voice 
was  soft,  with  a  gentleness  that  only  a  mother  knows 
who  sits  with  drowsy  children. 

And  to  that  little  girl  I  was  betrothed.  It  was 
sworn  with  oath  and  signature  that  some  day  I  would 
marry  her  and  that,  when  I  became  king  of  England 
in  the  revolving  years,  she  would  be  its  queen. 

BETSY:  By  what  miracle  did  you  know  me,  Hal? 

JOE:  It  was  the  song  you  sang.  Your  voice  was 
the  miracle  that  told  the  secret.  With  unvarnished 
speech  I  woo  you.  I  love  you,  Margaret,  and  I  ask 
you  to  be  my  wife. 

MEG:  (faintly  —  floating  in  a  golden  sea  of  grog] 
Hooray  ! 

(Joe  takes  Betsy  in  his  arms  and  kisses  her.) 


126  WAPPIN'   WHARF 

JOE  :  The  magic  of  your  lips,  my  dear,  is  the  miracle 
that  answers  me.  My  loyal  sailors,  I  present  you. 
Margaret,  Duchess  of  Cornwall,  Countess  of  Devon, 
Princess  of  the  Western  Marches,  by  right  and  title 
possessor  of  all  land  'twixt  Exeter  and  Land's  End. 
And  now,  by  her  consent  and  the  grace  of  God,  the 
wife  of  Harry,  King  of  England. 

CAPTAIN:  Leetle  Betsy,  I  fergives  yer. 

DUKE:  I  asks  yer  health,  though  I  swings  ter- 
morrer. 

PATCH:  And  may  yer  live  long  and  'appy! 

DARLIN'  :  We  're  lovin'  yer,  Betsy. 

BETSY:  My  gracious  lord,  for  these  three  years 
this  cabin  has  been  my  home.  These  are  my  friends — 
the  only  friends  I  have  ever  known.  They  fed  me 
when  I  had  no  food  and  they  kept  me  warm  against 
the  cold.  Must  they  hang?  I  ask  you  to  pardon  them. 

DARLIN':  Glory  ter  God! 

JOE:  The  pardon  is  granted.  Captain,  strike  off 
their  irons! 

DARLIN'  :  We  loves  yer,  Betsy. 

CAPTAIN:  We  are  fonder  of  yer  than  grog  and 
singin'  angels. 

PATCH:  I  thanks  yer,  King. 

DUKE:  It  were  jest  an  hour  ago,  settin'  in  that 
chair,  I  asks  ter  splice  yer,  Betsy,  keel  ter  topsail. 
The  ol'  Duke  never  thought  the  Countess  of  all  them 
places,  and  the  Queen  o'  England,  ter  boot,  would 
ever  be  settin'  on  his  knee,  pullin'  at  his  whiskers— 
him  askin'  her  ter  name  the  'appy  day. 


WAPPIN'   WHARF  127 


BETSY:  It  was  a  prior  attachment,  Duke. 
CAPTAIN:  We  '11  serve  yer,  King,  like  we  served  oP 
Flint. 

PATCH:  Top  and  bottom,  fore  and  aft. 
DUKE:  We  '11  brag  how  the  King  o'  England  and 
us  has   drunk  grog  together,  and   how  the  Queen 
washed  up  the  mugs. 

MEG:  (in  a  whisper).    Hooray! 
JOE:  And  now,  Captain,  lead  the  way.    We  must 
speed  to  London. 

BETSY:  Good  by,  Duke.    Some  day  you  will  find  a 
girl  who  cooks  roast  pig  that  crackles. 

DUKE:  A  blessin',  Betsy,  on  yer  laughin'  eyes! 
CAPTAIN:  A  health  ter  King  Hal  and  his  blushin' 
bride ! 

ALL:  King  Hal!    Leetle  Betsy! 
(With  a  wave  of  the  hand  Joe  departs,  and  with  him, 
Betsy,  who  kisses  her  fingers  to  the  pirates  in  fare 
well.    The  sailors  follow.    The  pirates  and  Darlin' 
are  left.     The  pirates  sit  at  the  table.     They  ex 
change  glances  of  satisfaction.    They  unbutton  for  a 
quiet  evening  at  home.    Kings  are  but  an  episode 
in  a  pirate's  life.    They  return  to  the  happy  routine 
of  their  lives.    Our  adventure  has  circled  to  its  start.) 
PATCH:  Darlin'!    Me  friend,  the  Duke,  is  thirsty. 
Yer  had  better  mix  another  pot  o'  grog.    Yer  does  n't 
want  ter  be  a  foolish  virgin  and  get  ketched  without 
no  grog. 

DARLIN':  (at  the  fire).     Yer  coddles  yer  stomich, 
Patch. 


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Our  candles  have  burned  to  socket.  Our  pasteboard 
cabin  is  bare  and  dark.  No  longer  do  pirate  flags  flaunt 
the  ghostly  seas.  The  stormy  ocean,  the  dizzy  cliffs  of 
Devon,  melt  like  an  unsubstantial  pageant.  Let  's  put 
away  our  toys — the  timber  leg,  the  patch,  the  frightful 
hook.  Once  again,  despite  the  weary  signpost  of  the 
years,  we  have  run  on  the  laughing  avenues  of  childhood. 


